Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point - H. Irving Hancock (free e reader .TXT) 📗

deserved, managed to keep a few friends, but was avoided by most of the yearlings. Since he had taken his medicine so frankly, he was not, however, "cut."

One afternoon, when Dick had been dozing on his mattress for about ten minutes, during a period of freedom from drill, the tent flap rustled, and Yearling Furlong looked in.

"What is it?" called Dick.

"Sorry if I've roused you, old ramrod," murmured the caller.

"That's all right, Milesy. Come in and rest yourself. You won't mind if I keep flat, will you?

"Not in training for sick report?" asked Furlong, glancing down solicitously. But he saw the glow of robust health glowing through the deep coat of tan on Prescott's face.

"My appetite doesn't resemble sick report," laughed Dick. "But, while you don't really look ill, Milesy, it's very plain that you have something serious on your mind. Out with it!

"I guess that will make me feel better," assented Furlong, with a sigh. "It's all that little plebe beast, Mr. Briggs."

"Surely he hasn't been hazing you?" inquired Prescott, opening his eyes very wide.

"No, no; not just that, old ramrod," replied Furlong. "But Mr. Briggs is proving a huge disappointment to me. I've done my best to make a meek and lowly cub of him, but he won't consent to fill his place. Now, that little beast made a good enough get away with his studies during the three months before camp. He mastered all the work of the soldier in ranks. At bottoms Mr. Briggs is really a very good little boy soldier. But he's so abominably and incurably fresh that he should have gone to Annapolis, where there's always some salt in the breeze.

"What has Mr. Briggs been doing now?" asked Dick with interest.

"What doesn't Mr. Briggs do?" sighed Furlong mournfully. "Instead of sleeping nights, that beast must lie awake, devising more ways of being unutterably fresh. But now he's contaminating his bunkie, Mr. Ellis."

"Evil company always did work havoc with good manners," nodded Dick.
"So Mr. Ellis has gone bad, has he?"

"Do you know," continued Furlong severely, "that three mornings ago, when Jessup, of our class, was dressing at forty horsepower so he wouldn't miss reveille formation, that he stepped into two shoes full of soft soap, and had to go out sloshing into line in that shape, just because he couldn't spare the time to take his shoes off and empty them?

"Yes," nodded Prescott. "We suspected Haverford, of the first class, of that, because Jessup, on guard, challenged Haverford when Haverford was trying to run the guard after taps."

"Haverford nothing," retorted Furlong. "He's above such jobs. No, sir! This afternoon Jessup ran plumb into Mr. Ellis when that little beast bunkie of the other beast, Mr. Briggs, was just in the act of dropping soft soap into the shoes that Aldrich will wear to dress parade today.

"Where on earth did Mr. Ellis get hold of soft soap?" demanded
Prescott, raising himself on one elbow.

"You're entirely missing the problem, old ramrod!" grunted Furlong wrathfully. "The question is, how can we possibly soak such habits out of Mr. Ellis and Mr. Briggs?"

"Perhaps it can't be done," suggested Dick.

"It must be done!" uttered Furlong savagely.

"Well, I can't think of any yearling better suited to the task that you are, Milesy!"

"One man? or one tentful, isn't equal to any such gigantic piece of work!" retorted Furlong. "Ramrod, you've got to appoint a class committee to take these two baboons in hand. It ought to be done this very night, too. Now, sit up, won't you, and get your thinking cap on?"

"Have you talked with any of the other men?"

"Yes; and they all agree that a soiree must be given to Mr. Ellis, and that you should be present."

"What is the call for me, Milesy?

"You are the class president."

"But this is no affair that involves the honor of the class.
Therefore, as president, I cannot see that there is any call for me."

"It is the feeling with all the members of the yearling class that you should be present."

Prescott looked at his visitor intently for a moment.

Dick understood, now. He had taken "too little" interest in the hazing of b.j. plebes, and the class did not want to see its president shirk any duties that might be considered his, either as yearling or as class president.

"Very good, Milesy," replied Dick quietly. "You may inform all anxious inquirers that I'll be on hand. Where and at what hour?"

"Eight o'clock, in Dunstan's tent."

"Very good."

Furlong arose with a satisfied look on his face. He had, in fact, been deputed by others to make sure that Prescott would be on hand. There is always a good deal of risk attendant on hazing. It may lead to discovery—-and dismissal.

"I wonder if some of the fellows think I keep away from hazing simply because I'm afraid of risking my neck?" yawned Dick. "They practically insist on my sitting in to-night, do they? Oh, well!"

The hop took more men away from camp than usual that night. Other cadets met friends from the hotel or officers' quarters at post number one.

But over in Dunstan's tent a considerable group of yearlings gathered. A few, in fact, were obliged to stand outside. This they did in such a way as not to attract the attention of the O.C. or any chance tac.

Dick was there, and with him were Holmes and Anstey, to both of whom had been conveyed a hint as strong as that which had reached the class president. Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs were in the tent. Jessup and Aldrich were there as a matter of fact.

On the still night air came the clanging of eight on the big clock down in the group of barracks and Academic Building. Just as the strokes were pealing forth Plebes Briggs and Ellis came up the street and stood at the front pole of Dunstan's tent.

"Come in, beasties," summoned Furlong. "We are awaiting you."

Neither plebe looked over joyous as the pair entered.

"Stand there, misters," ordered Dick, pointing to the space that had been reserved for the victims of the affair. "Now, misters, there is some complaint that you have mistaken West Point for a theatrical training school. The suspicion is gaining ground that you two beasties imagine you have been appointed here as comedians. Is that your delusion?"

"No, sir," replied Mr. Briggs and Mr. Ellis in one solemn breath.

"Then what ails you, misters?" demanded Dick severely.

Both plebes remained silent.

"Answer me, sirs. You first, Mr. Briggs."

"I think we must have been carried away by excess of animal spirits, sir," replied Mr. Briggs, now speaking meekly enough.

"Animal spirits?" repeated Dick thoughtfully. "There may be much truth and reason in that idea. Camp life here is repressive of animal spirits, to be sure. We who are your mentors to some extent should have thought of that. Mr. Briggs, you shall find relief for your animal spirits. Mr. Ellis, what is your defence?"

"I thought, sir—-thought——-"

With the yearling President's eyes fixed on him in stern, searching gaze, the once merry little Mr. Ellis became confused. He broke off stameringly.

"That's enough, Mr. Ellis," replied the class president. "You admit that you thought. Now, no plebe is capable of thinking. Your answer, mister, proves you to be guilty of egotism."

Then Dick, with the air of a judge, yet with a mocking pretence of gentleness and leniency sounding; in his voice, turned back to Plebe Briggs.

"Mr. Briggs, you will now proceed to relieve your animal spirits by some spirited animal conduct. The animal that you will represent will be the crab. Down on your face, mister!"

Flat on the floor lay Mr. Briggs. The yearlings outside, at the tent doorway, scenting something coming, peered in eagerly.

"Now, spread out your arms and legs, mister, just as any good crab should do. Raise your body from the floor. Not too much; about six inches will do. Now, mister, move about as nearly as possible in the manner of a crab. Stop, mister! Don't you know that a crab moves either backwards or sideways? It will not give enough vent to your animal spirits unless you move exactly as your model, the crab, does. Try it again, mister, and be painstaking in your imitation."

Mr. Briggs presented a most grotesque appearance as he crawled about over the floor in the very limited space allowed him by the presence of so many others. The yearlings enjoyed it all in mirthful silence.

"As for you, mister," continued Dick, turning upon the uncomfortable Mr. Ellis, "your self-conceit so fills every part of your body that the only thing for you is to stand on your head. Go to the rear tentpole and stand on your head. You may brace your feet against the pole. But remain on your head until we make sure that all the conceit has run out of you!"

Mr. Briggs was still "crabbing it" over the floor. Every minute the task became more irksome.

"Up with you, mister," Prescott admonished. "No self-respecting crab, with an abundance of animal spirits, ever trails along the ground like that."

After some two minutes of standing on his head Mr. Ellis fell over sideways, his feet thudding.

"Up with you, sir," admonished Dick. "You are still so full of egotism that it sways you like the walking beam of a steamboat. Up with you, mister, and up you stay until there is no ballast of conceit left in you."

Crab-crab-crab! Mr. Briggs continued to move sidewise and backward over the tent flooring.

Mr. Ellis was growing frightfully red in the face. But Prescott, from the remembrance of his own plebe days, knew to a dot how long a healthy plebe could keep that inverted position without serious injury. So the class president, sitting as judge in the court of hazing, showed no mercy.

Some of the yearlings who stood outside peering in should have kept a weather eye open for the approach of trouble from tac. quarters. But, as the ordeals of both of the once frisky plebes became more severe, the interest of those outside increased.

Crab-crab-crab! continued Mr. Briggs. It seemed to him as though his belt-line weighed fully a ton, so hard was it to keep his abdomen off the floor, resting solely on his hands and feet.

Mr. Ellis must have felt that conceit and he could never again be friends, judging by the redness of his face and the straining of his muscles.

An approaching step outside should have been heard by some of
the yearlings looking in through the doorway, but it wasn't.
Then, all in an instant, the step quickened, and Lieutenant
Topham, O.C. for the day, made for the tent door!

CHAPTER XI LIEUTENANT TOPHAM FEELS QUEER

Yearling Kelton barely turned his head, but he caught sight of the olive drab of the uniform of the Army officer within a few feet.

Pretending not to have seen the officer, Cadet Kelton drew in his breath with a sharp whistle. It was not loud, but it was penetrating, and it carried the warning.

Swift as a flash Prescott caught upside-down Mr. Ellis, and fairly rolled him out under the canvas edge at the back of the tent.

Greg instantly shoved the prostrate Mr. Briggs through by the same exit.

Fortunately both plebes were too much astonished to utter a sound.

"Crouch and scowl at me, Greg—-hideously whispered alert-witted
Dick."

As he spoke, Prescott swiftly crouched before Holmes. Dick's hands rested on his knees; he stuck out his tongue and scowled fiercely at Holmes, who tried to repay the compliment with interest.

Although all the yearlings in the tent had been "scared stiff" at Kelton's low, warning signal, all, by an effort, laughed heartily, their gaze on Prescott and Holmes.

"Yah!" growled Dick. "Perhaps I did steal the widow's chickens, and I'll even admit that I did appropriate the pennies from her baby's bank. But that's nothing. Tell 'em about the time you stole the oats from the blind horse's crib and put breakfast food in its place."

Everyone of the yearlings in the tent