On Guard Part 14

"The answer will come to-night," Mark said, "when they read off the reports. And until then--nothing."

Which just expressed the situation.

The day pa.s.sed somehow; between police duties and drills, the six were kept busy enough to relieve the suspense of waiting. And after supper the battalion lined up, the roll was called, and the orders of the following day were read, while Mark and his friends fretted and gasped with impatience. There were reports, and finally miscellaneous notices, among them the sick list!

"Fourth cla.s.s," read the officer, then halted a moment. "Powers"--every man in the line was straining eyes and ears, half dead with curiosity--then, "excused indefinitely--temporary mental aberration, caused by heat."

Safe!

And a moment later the line broke ranks, the cadets discussing with added interest the case of that extraordinary plebe. But the six had danced off in joy.

"He's safe! He's safe!" they cried. "Hooray!"

"And now," said Mark, "there's only one thing more. We've got to reform him, make sure he don't do it again!"

"We will," said the others.

It was two days after that, one evening after supper, that the door of the hospital building was opened and Texas came forth, spruce and handsome in a brand new uniform, looking none the worse for his "sunstroke" treatment--_i. e._, plenty of cold water, inside and out.

Texas felt moderately contented, too. He had held up the corps as he had promised--not a man in the crowd had dared to fire a shot at him. He had a vague recollection of having done something heroic, besides. He saw that every one was staring at him in "admiration;" in short, our friend Powers was prepared for a rousing and hearty reception from the rest of the Seven.

He strode up the company street, not failing to notice meanwhile that plebes, and old cadets, too, made way for him in awe and respect. He stopped at Mark's place, pushed the flap aside, and entered with a rush.

"Oh!" he cried. "Whar be you? How's everybody?"

The first person he saw was Master Dewey, and to him Texas rushed and held out his hand. To his indescribable amazement that young gentleman calmly stared at him, and put both his hands behind his back.

"W--w--why!" gasped Texas.

Whereupon Dewey turned upon his heel and walked out of the tent.

Texas was dumfounded. He stared at the others; they were all there except Mark, and they gazed at the intruder in cold indifference. None of them apparently had ever seen him before.

"Look a yere!" demanded Texas at last. "Ain't you fellows a-goin' to speak to me?"

Evidently they were not, for they didn't even answer his question. Texas stood and stared at them for a few moments more, wondering whether he ought not to sail in and do up the crowd. Finally, as the silence grew even more embarra.s.sing, he decided to go out and find Mark to learn what on earth was the matter. With this intention he turned and hurriedly left the tent, while the five inmates looked at one another and smiled.

Mark was walking up the street; Texas espied him and made a dash for him.

"Hi, Mark!" he roared. "What's the matter with them----"

Texas stopped in alarm; a feather might have laid him flat. Mark, his chum, his tent mate, was staring at him without a sign of recognition!

And a moment later Mark turned on his heel and strode away in silence, while Texas gasped, "Great Scott!"

That evening, seated on one of the guns up by Trophy Point, was visible a solitary figure, looking about as lonely and wretched as a human being can. It was "the Texas madman." Everybody kept a safe distance away from him, and so no one had a chance to notice that the madman's eyes were filled with tears.

"Poor Texas," Mark was thinking. "He'll come to terms pretty soon."

He did, for a fact. That same evening, just before tattoo, Mark felt a grip upon his arm that made him wince. He turned and found it was his friend, a look of misery upon his face that went to the other's heart.

"Look a-yere, old man," he pleaded. "Won't you--oh, for Heaven's sake, tell me what's the matter?"

"I don't mind telling you," responded Mark, slowly. "You have behaved yourself as no gentleman should, and as no friend of mine shall!"

"I!" cried Texas, in amazement. "I! What on earth have I done?"

"Done!" echoed Mark. "Didn't you go off and get drunk? For shame, Texas!"

Texas was too dumfounded to say a word. He could only stare and gasp.

Here was a state of affairs indeed!

"Yes!" chimed in Dewey, approaching at this moment. "And you nearly killed dozens of people, too. Mark was within an ace of being dismissed; and as for you! why, you'd have been fired long ago if Mark hadn't pleaded for hours with the superintendent!"

Texas turned his wondering eyes upon Dewey then. He was fairly choking with amazement.

"Do you mean to say," he gasped at last, "that you fellows are mad with me because I got drunk?"

"Exactly," responded Mark.

"And do you mean to tell me that you call that disgraceful conduct?"

"I do. And I mean to tell you, moreover, that you can't be a friend of ours while you do it. I don't know how people feel about such things where you come from, Texas, but I do know that if people up here knew you had been in that condition not a soul would speak to you. There's very little room among decent people for the fellow who thinks it smart to make a fool of himself, and he usually finds it out, too, after it is too late. I never spent my time hanging around saloons, and I don't think much of fellows that do, either."

Mark could scarcely repress a smile as he watched the effect this brief sermon produced on the astounded Texan.

"I wonder what dad would say if he heard that!" was the thought in the latter's mind.

Texas was brought back from this thought rather suddenly to his own situation. For Mark and Dewey both turned away to leave him again.

"Look a-yere, Mark," he cried, seizing him by the arm again. "Look a-yere, ole man, won't you forgive me jest this once. Oh, please!"

And there were tears in the Texan's big gray eyes as he said it.

"But you'll do it again," Mark objected.

"'Deed I won't, man! 'Deed I won't. I'll swear I'll never do it again s'long as I live."

"But will you keep your promise?"

"I never broke one yit as I know," responded Texas with an injured look.

And Mark, rejoicing inwardly at his success, but outwardly very grave and solemn, said that he'd go in and ask the other six about it.

Texas sat with his feet against the tent pole and a pen in one hand. He held a letter to his father in the other; he was just through writing it, and he was going to read it for the edification of the Banded Seven.

"'Dear Sc.r.a.p,'" he began. "You see," added Texas, in an explanatory note, "I call him Sc.r.a.p sometimes just to make him feel comfortable. All the boys call him that. 'Dear Sc.r.a.p. This yere is the first letter I've written you since I hit this place. I ain't heard from you, so I don't know whether you got 'lected fo' Congress or not. I been havin' piles o'

sport up yere. Took in three quarts 'tother day, an' I held up the hull corps on the strength of it. Busted two horses' legs, though, an' I reckon you'll have to send on the price. Don't think they'll mount to over a thousan' or two. I've still got my guns----'