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Title: Tom Taylor at West Point
The old Army officer's secret
Author: Frank V Webster
Release Date: June 24, 2023 [eBook #71034]
Language: English
Credits: David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made
available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM TAYLOR AT WEST
POINT ***
[Illustration: TOM AND HIS FELLOW RIDERS WOULD RAISE THEIR SABERS HIGH
IN THE AIR AND YELL.
_Tom Taylor at West Point._ _Page 202._]
TOM TAYLOR
AT WEST POINT
Or
The Old Army Officer’s Secret
BY
FRANK V. WEBSTER
AUTHOR OF “ONLY A FARM BOY,” “BOB THE CASTAWAY,” “AIRSHIP
ANDY,” “DARRY, THE LIFE-SAVER,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY FRANK V. WEBSTER
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
ONLY A FARM BOY
TOM, THE TELEPHONE BOY
THE BOY FROM THE RANCH
THE YOUNG TREASURE HUNTER
BOB, THE CASTAWAY
THE YOUNG FIREMEN OF LAKEVILLE
THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS
THE BOY PILOT OF THE LAKES
THE TWO BOY GOLD MINERS
JACK, THE RUNAWAY
COMRADES OF THE SADDLE
THE BOYS OF BELLWOOD SCHOOL
THE HIGH SCHOOL RIVALS
BOB CHESTER’S GRIT
AIRSHIP ANDY
DARRY, THE LIFE SAVER
DICK, THE BANK BOY
BEN HARDY’S FLYING MACHINE
THE BOYS OF THE WIRELESS
HARRY WATSON’S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX
TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT
COWBOY DAVE
THE BOYS OF THE BATTLESHIP
JACK OF THE PONY EXPRESS
_Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York_
Copyright, 1915, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WONDERFUL NEWS 1
II. THE EXAMINATION 13
III. ANXIOUS DAYS 21
IV. SUCCESS 29
V. AN ATTACK 35
VI. OFF TO WEST POINT 43
VII. GETTING READY 49
VIII. A SLIDE FOR LIFE 60
IX. CAPTAIN HAWKESBURY 69
X. ANTICIPATION 76
XI. A LARK 83
XII. TOM’S REFUSAL 91
XIII. ACROSS THE RIVER 97
XIV. AN EXPLOSION 103
XV. HARD WORK 110
XVI. ON FURLOUGH 118
XVII. A QUARREL 127
XVIII. BACK AT WEST POINT 138
XIX. UNHORSED 146
XX. IN THE HOSPITAL 155
XXI. THE CLUE 164
XXII. IN GARRISON 174
XXIII. DISCOVERED 182
XXIV. RESTITUTION 190
XXV. GRADUATION 199
TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT
CHAPTER I
WONDERFUL NEWS
Tom Taylor, a well set up, pleasant-faced lad of about sixteen, came
marching up the path that led from the street to the front door of the
cottage. Tom was whistling a cheerful air; no--one moment--the tune was
cheerful enough, but Tom Taylor was whistling it in anything but a gay
manner.
Something in the way that he trilled out the notes must have impressed
his mother, for she looked up quickly, and out of the open window near
which she was sewing.
“Why, Tom!” she exclaimed, “you’re home early; aren’t you? I hope----”
There was an anxious note in her voice, and an extra trace of worry
showed in her face, already lined with marks of care.
“Yes, I am home a bit early, Mother. I’m taking a sort of vacation you
see. Came home to get you to go for a walk. It’s too soon for supper.
Come on, we’ll walk over to the woods,” and once again Tom tried to
put some gaiety into the tune he was whistling.
Mrs. Taylor shook her head.
“That isn’t the reason you came home so early, Tom,” she said, gently.
“I know something has happened. Tell me!”
“It isn’t anything at all, Mother, really! Come on, we’ll go for a
little walk, and then, when we come back, I’ll help you get supper.
Come along.”
Again Mrs. Taylor shook her head.
“I’d like to come with you, Tom, you know that,” she said, “but I must
finish this dress. Mrs. Leighton wants it to wear to-morrow, and if it
isn’t done I’ll not get paid for it, and you know the interest is soon
due. We must meet that.”
“Yes, I know,” and a frown passed over the lad’s face. “I wonder who
invented interest, anyhow. It always comes at such an inconvenient
time. Well, here’s something toward it, Mother,” and he took from his
pocket a few bills and some change in silver.
“Oh, Tom! To-night isn’t pay night!” his mother exclaimed.
“It was--for me,” he said, and this time he smiled, for he saw a look
of alarm, and almost of fear, come over his mother’s face, and he
wanted to be as reassuring as possible.
“Why, Tom--Tom! if Mr. Blackford paid you, then----”
“Then it’s pretty good evidence, Mother, that I earned the money!”
finished Tom with a laugh. “You don’t often catch Mr. Blackford paying
for something he hasn’t had. I certainly earned this!”
Tom sighed in memory of the long hours of hard work he had given in
exchange for that small amount of money.
“But why should he pay you ahead of time, Tom?”
“Because, Mother, there isn’t going to be any more time for me at Mr.
Blackford’s store--that is not right away. I’m through--paid off, as it
were.”
“Oh, Tom! I hope you didn’t have a quarrel with him!”
“Not in the least, Mother. It was a plain business proposition. He said
he couldn’t afford to hire me after school any more to do some of his
errands, and help straighten out the stock. So he paid me what he owed
me, and here I am.
“I quit an hour earlier, you see, though I didn’t lose anything by it,
and I thought maybe you’d come for a walk.”
“I’d like to, Tom, but really I must finish this dress. Oh, I’m so
sorry Mr. Blackford couldn’t keep you.”
“So am I, Mother, particularly as we need the money. But I think I can
find something else to do. Business is picking up a little. I’m going
to be on the lookout. Something is sure to turn up. And I do hope it
will be something worth while, so I can, by some means or other, get
enough ahead to go to West Point.”
“You haven’t forgotten your ambition I see, Tom,” said his mother, as
she vigorously plied her needle, taking advantage of the last hours of
daylight.
“Forgotten it, Mother? Indeed I haven’t! I never shall. I intend to go
to West Point, and become an army officer.”
Tom straightened himself up as he said this, as though he had heard the
command:
“Attention!”
But the only sound that came to the ears of his mother and himself was
the distant hum and roar of the little city, on the outskirts of which
they lived.
Mrs. Taylor sighed. Tom was folding the bills into a neat little
package, enclosing within the silver coins. It was a small sum, but it
represented much to him and his widowed mother.
“I don’t like to think of you being a soldier, Tom,” said Mrs. Taylor,
as she stopped to thread a needle.
“Well, I guess there isn’t very much danger,” Tom laughed. “There
aren’t, at present, any vacancies from this congressional district so
I understand, and the appointments at large have all been filled. And
even if there was a chance for me to get in, I couldn’t do it I guess.
It takes about a hundred dollars to start with, but, of course, after
that Uncle Sam looks out for you. But I sure would like to go!”
Tom’s eyes sparkled, and again he half unconsciously straightened up,
as stiff as the proverbial ramrod.
“I wish you could have your wish, Tom,” his mother said, softly; “but I
can’t bear to think of war. It is so cruel!”
“Oh, just because I want to go to West Point, and become an army
officer, doesn’t mean there’ll be war, Mother. In fact, war is ceasing
to be the custom. But the best way not to have a war, is to be in the
finest possible shape to meet it if it does come.”
“I can’t bear to think of it, Tom. The shooting--the killing! Oh, it’s
terrible!”
“But the United States Army does a lot of things besides shooting and
killing,” Tom said. “Look at the officers and men--see what they’ve
done in the Panama Canal zone. Why, in spite of the fact that they’re
trained in the arts of war, they have, of late, been using their
special knowledge in the interests of peace. I certainly would give
anything for the chance to go to West Point. But there! No use thinking
about it!”
Tom seemed to blow the matter away as though it were some trifle,
light as air, and he assumed a manner of indifference that he did not
altogether feel.
“Come on, Mother,” he begged, tossing the money into her lap through
the open window. “Take a half-hour off. You’ll be all the better for
it. You haven’t been eating well lately. A walk to the woods will give
you an appetite.”
“I believe I will go with you, Tom,” she said, with sudden decision. “I
can finish this dress after supper, but it must be delivered, and----”
“I’ll take it over,” said the lad. “I haven’t many lessons to-night.”
A little later mother and son were walking across the field that lay
between their cottage and a little patch of wood in the cool and shady
depths of which they were wont often to stroll.
Mrs. Taylor was the widow of Charles Taylor, who was once well-to-do.
He had lost his fortune in unfortunate speculation, however, and
the shock and disappointment of this, coupled with a not too strong
constitution, caused his death when Tom was about twelve years old.
From the wreck of her husband’s estate Mrs. Taylor received a small
income, and she and Tom, moving from the well-appointed house in the
best residential section of the small city of Chester, took up their
abode in a small cottage, once owned by Mr. Taylor, but now mortgaged
to a Mr. Aaron Doolittle, who had, in some unexplained manner, become
possessed of much of Mr. Taylor’s former property.
The crash resulting in the sweeping away of the money, and the death of
her husband, had almost stunned the young widow. But she rallied, and
bravely took up the battle of life.
Mrs. Taylor was an expert needlewoman, and some of her former friends
kept her well supplied with work. She managed, with a small income from
some investments her husband had made before the crash, to keep Tom at
his studies, and, eventually, he went to the high school, where he was
in attendance when our story opens.
It did not take Tom long to realize that he was every day becoming more
and more of an expense to his widowed mother. His clothes never seemed
to wear very well. There were certain books and other materials to buy,
that he might keep up his school work. And his appetite was not a small
one.
He saw the need of more money, and resolved to earn it himself after
school hours. He secured a place in the grocery of Mr. Blackford, and
by delivering orders, helping to keep the stock in order, and doing
the hundred and one things that always can be done about a grocery, he
managed to add a few dollars to the weekly income.
But now, owing, as Mr. Blackford had alleged, to a desire on his part
to save money, he had told Tom his services would no longer be required.
“Though I’ll wager he’s found some one who will do it more cheaply than
I did,” declared Tom. “Well, he won’t get any one to do it any better,
that’s sure. I’m going to see Wendell to-morrow, after school. He may
need a boy in his store.”
“Oh, Tom, they say he’s mean and cruel. No one likes to work for him,”
objected Mrs. Taylor.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” replied the lad, laughing. “I don’t mind
hard work. I’d have to work hard if I went to West Point.”
His mother smiled. She did wish her fine-looking son could have his
wish, but it seemed out of the question. In silence the two strolled on
through the wood, to the far edge.
There, standing amid the trees, they could look across a narrow valley
to where a railroad embankment wound its way along the shore of a small
river. In the distance could be seen a large bridge, and, crossing the
river on this, the S. & C. V. Railroad entered the village of Preston.
The railway only touched the outskirts of Chester, but the line was
near the center of Preston, which acquired importance from the fact
that the county court house was located there.
“Well, if we had some of the money that was sunk around the piers
of that bridge,” said Tom reflectively, “our worries would be over,
Mother!”
“Yes,” she agreed, as Tom waved his hand toward the railroad structure,
“but there’s no use talking or thinking about that, Tom. It’s past and
gone, and the money has disappeared.”
“It disappeared all right enough,” and Tom’s tone was the least bit
menacing. “But I’m not so sure that it disappeared fairly and honestly.
If it had sunk in a bed of quicksand it couldn’t have vanished any more
completely. But between old Doolittle, the railroad lawyers and some
others--”
“Oh, Tom, please don’t bring up that old dispute!” begged his mother.
“You know it can’t do any good.”
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. “But it certainly is hard luck to
look at what you think ought to be yours, and know that some one else
is enjoying the benefit of it,” and Tom shook his finger at the big
railroad bridge, as if that structure of steel were, in some way,
responsible for the unpleasant circumstances of his mother and himself.
The railroad bridge, or, rather, one of the ends and the approach, was
located on land that had formed a part of Mr. Taylor’s estate. The land
had always been considered valuable, and when the railroad went through
the value of that property, as well as of other land near it, rose
rapidly.
Then came Mr. Taylor’s death, and his widow, instead of receiving what
she hoped for--a large sum from the sale of the bridge site to the
railway people--received nothing at all. Inquiry developed the fact
that certain creditors of Mr. Taylor’s, including a Mr. Aaron Doolittle
and a Captain Cason Hawkesbury, held a claim on the bridge land, and
they received the money for it from the railroad.
But, as Mrs. Taylor said, that was past and gone, though Tom could not
forget it. There was always resentment in his heart, for he believed
his mother should have received something for her rights. But they were
not able to hire competent lawyers, and the young member of the bar
who wound up the affairs of Mr. Taylor’s estate did not seem to think
there was a chance of getting anything by litigation over the bridge
property.
“We must go back, Tom,” said his mother finally. “I’ve enjoyed the
little walk, and I feel better for it. But I must get that dress done,
and I’m sure you are hungry.”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I am,” he said, with a final look at
the bridge, over which, at that moment, an express train was rumbling.
“Going right over our property as if it had a right!” grumbled Tom.
“But they have a right, son,” his mother said gently. “Don’t brood over
that any more.”
Tom might have done so, in spite of her request, but for something that
happened shortly after that. They were walking down the side street
toward their cottage, when a boy with a bundle of papers under his arm,
came along.
“Will you take yours now, Mrs. Taylor, or shall I leave it at the
house?” he asked, touching his cap and smiling.
“I’ll take it,” said Tom. “I forgot the _Banner_ came out to-day.
Wonder if they have a good account of our baseball game.”
The _Banner_ was the weekly paper issued in Chester, and Mrs. Taylor
subscribed to it. Tom took the sheet from the delivery boy, and rapidly
scanned the front page.
“Yes,” he said, “here’s a big account of the game. And here--Say,
Mother! Look here!” he exclaimed, holding the paper up in front
of her, and pointing out a certain item. “There’s going to be a
competitive examination for a West Point cadetship! It’s going to take
place in Preston in two weeks. It’s open to all the lads around here.
Congressman Hutton has an appointment to make, and he’s going to let it
go to the fellow who gets the best standing.
“Say, this is great! Wonderful! Mother, I’m going to have a try for
that! A vacancy has unexpectedly occurred, it says. It’s my chance,
Mother! It’s my chance!”
CHAPTER II
THE EXAMINATION
Tom Taylor was really quite excited. He strode along the street
quickly, fluttering the paper containing the wonderful news, until
finally Mrs. Taylor was obliged to call out:
“Tom, dear! You seem to forget that I haven’t my seven-league boots on.
I can’t keep up with you,” and she laughed, though there was a worried
look in her eyes.
“That’s so, Mother! I beg your pardon,” Tom said. “I forgot about
everything except this chance. Say! it’s great; isn’t it?” and he
looked at his mother with shining eyes.
“Are you really going to attempt it?” she asked softly.
“Why, yes, of course,” Tom said, quickly. “Why not?”
“Do you think you can pass, Tom?”
“Well, I’m not absolutely sure of it, of course. No one is. But I think
I can pass the preliminary physical test, and that will admit me to
the written examination. I’ve been making some inquiries about that,
and there isn’t any subject that we haven’t had in our high school
work. I may be a bit rusty on certain things, but I’m going to bone up
on them. I’ve got a week or more.”
“And if you pass this examination that is to be held at Preston, does
that mean you’ll become a cadet?” asked his mother.
“No, it doesn’t, worse luck!” Tom exclaimed, with a rueful laugh.
“But if I come out ahead in this preliminary examination, and get the
appointment from Congressman Hutton, it means that I have a chance to
go to West Point, and have a try there. And there’s where it will be
pretty stiff, I imagine.”
“Oh, Tom, I--I hope you get it,” his mother murmured.
“Ho, ho! Thought you didn’t want to see me in the army?”
“Well, I don’t want to see you go to war,” his mother said gently. “But
if it is your ambition to become a West Pointer, and if, as you say,
there is a chance to do good work outside of shooting and killing, why,
I shall not oppose you. Now let’s hurry home. I must get the dress
finished, West Point or not,” and she smiled.
Tom walked beside her, reading over and over again the notice of the
examination soon to be held. In brief it was a statement from the
congressman of that district to the effect, that, as he had a chance to
name a youth to go to West Point, he had decided to throw the chance
open to all the eligible lads of his district. They were to report at
the Preston Court House on a certain day.
“And I’ll be there!” exclaimed Tom. “But I say though--hold on. There’s
something I almost forgot!” and a shade of annoyance passed over his
face.
“What is it, Tom?” asked his mother, as they neared the cottage.
“I have to have a hundred dollars, Mother.”
“A hundred dollars, Tom! What for?”
“To deposit at West Point,--that is if I get the permanent
appointment,” he explained. “It’s a sort of guarantee to cover
preliminary cost of equipment, and so on. I almost forgot that. A
hundred dollars! It’s a pile of money!”
“But you don’t need it right away; do you?”
“No, not until June, when I’ll have to report at the Military Academy
in case I’m successful. But--”
“Well, don’t worry about that part of it--at least not now,” said his
mother. “When the time comes I may find a way to get it. I don’t want
to see you lose this chance. Don’t worry about the money or it may
spoil your chances for passing the examination. I dare say I shall
manage somehow.”
“Oh, if you only can, Mother!” and, even though they were out in the
street, Tom put his arms around her and kissed her.
“Oh, Tom!” she remonstrated.
“Don’t you care!” he cried, gaily. “Nobody saw us, and I don’t mind in
the least if they did.”
Supper was rather an excited meal, and Tom fairly ran home with the
dress his mother finished. He was paid, and as he carried back the
money he thought:
“It’s a shame I can’t make more myself. I don’t like the idea of taking
the money mother earns with her needle to go to West Point with. I sure
do want to go, though!”
“But I’ll make good!” he declared to himself, “and when I do, and when
I’m earning a decent salary, I’ll make it all up to mother. She can
live with me in barracks, perhaps, and I’ll be an engineer in charge of
some big work. Say, it sure will be great!”
His mind filled with such rosy dreams of the future as these, Tom
hurried around a corner, and ran full tilt into a man advancing from
the opposite direction. So hard was the impact that Tom would have
knocked down the man but that he caught hold of him and held him up.
“I beg your pardon!” Tom exclaimed.
“Hey! Heck! Huh--! Huh--! Ahem! Ah!” the man ejaculated, trying to
recover the breath that had been driven from his body. “What do you
mean by running into me like that, young man? What do you mean?”
“I beg your pardon--Oh, it’s Mr. Doolittle!” Tom exclaimed. “I didn’t
see you and--”
“Well, you’d better look where you’re goin’ next time!” was the
snappish response. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” and he seemed for the first
time to recognize Tom. “Might have known,” he muttered. “Nobody else
would be rushin’ around corners like that but you!”
“I hope you’re not hurt, Mr. Doolittle!” Tom ventured to say, as he
picked up the hat of the man who had succeeded to most of Mr. Taylor’s
property.
“Hurt? Huh! More by good luck than your efforts if I’m not!” was
grunted out. “Is my hat dented?”
“No, it doesn’t seem to be hurt a bit,” Tom said, as cheerfully as he
could. He brushed it off, and Mr. Doolittle placed it on his head.
“Um! Humph!” was all the answer Tom received, and then, muttering to
himself, the man who was counted one of the wealthiest in Chester
passed on in the darkness.
“Hope he doesn’t tack on an extra charge for interest just because
I ran into him,” thought Tom, as he kept on. He said nothing to his
mother of the encounter as he handed her the money he had brought home
for the dress.
When Tom went to school next day he discovered that a number of his
classmates had seen the notice about the competitive examination to
be held for the West Point cadetship, and several announced their
intention to try it. At the suggestion of one of them they decided to
learn the line of questioning that would be followed, and to study
up on those subjects specially. The school principal heard of their
intentions and kindly offered to coach them, which offer was gratefully
accepted.
Then began busy days for Tom Taylor. He was well up in his studies, and
he had little to fear regarding the physical examination, but there was
always the haunting fear lest something should happen. So he studied
early and late until the day set for the taking of the examination.
Tom arose early that morning, and with a last final look at his books,
and with a kiss from his mother, he set off to take the trolley to
Preston. He met several of his chums on the same errand.
The examinations would take all of one day and part of the next, and
some of those, who came from a distance, had to stop at the Preston
Hotel. But Tom could go home at night.
On reaching the court house, where the examinations were to be
conducted, Tom found a number of other lads there. Most of them were
strangers to him, coming from distant parts of the congressional
district.
Congressman Hutton was on hand, personally to direct matters, and three
physicians were in attendance to conduct the physical examination. To
Tom’s delight he went through this successfully, as he had expected.
But some of the boys were rejected, and with tears of regret in their
eyes they went back home.
Tom came from the room where he had been thumped, pounded, made to read
cards at varying distances to test his eyesight, and had had his heart
listened to after jumping violently up and down.
“You’ll do, young man,” the chief physician had said gruffly. “Get your
clothes on.”
Tom’s heart beat high with hope. As he was going out to join the other
candidates, some successful thus far, and some not, Tom saw a young
man, flashily dressed, standing near a window, smoking a cigarette.
“Better cut that out if you’re going in for the exam,” suggested a lad
near the smoker.
“Oh, I’m not worrying,” was the sneering retort. “They can’t turn _me_
down.”
The speaker turned, and Tom saw that he was Clarence Hawkesbury, the
nephew of Captain Hawkesbury, who had come into possession of so much
of Mr. Taylor’s property. Clarence looked at Tom and bowed coldly. They
had known each other for some time, but Tom did not care for Clarence,
and his “sporty” ways, and certainly young Hawkesbury had no liking for
Tom.
“Well, if you got through I’m sure I can,” Clarence said sneeringly to
our hero as he passed. “I’m going to get this appointment!” he added.
“If you do you’ll have to beat me!” thought Tom, grimly.
CHAPTER III
ANXIOUS DAYS
Tom realized that this first preliminary mental examination was, in a
way, not so important as would be the one he must undergo later at West
Point, should he be successful in receiving the appointment. But still
he knew he must do his best, for there were a number of lads competing,
all as anxious as he was to receive the coveted honor.
As a matter of fact Tom was a little fearful of Clarence. Though
the nephew of Captain Hawkesbury was, or wanted to be considered, a
“sport,” still he was a brilliant student when he took a little pains.
The trouble with him was that he would do only the minimum amount of
study at the high school, and in consequence did not stand high.
But it was evident that he had done some extra preparation for this
test, and, as Tom learned afterward, Clarence had, on the suggestion of
his uncle, engaged a private tutor. In addition Captain Hawkesbury,
who was an old army officer, knew in a general way what sort of
questions would be asked, and he (so Clarence boasted) had been giving
the nephew “points.”
Captain Hawkesbury was very fond of his rather careless nephew in a
certain way. The lad was the son of an only brother of the captain’s,
and both of Clarence’s parents had died when he was a small boy.
Perhaps this accounted, in a measure, for his slack ways, his
wastefulness with money, and his love for fast companions.
“But it won’t do to think he can’t beat me,” Tom reasoned. “I’ve just
got to do my best to stand far ahead of him.”
A room in the court house had been set aside for the candidates, and
several local high school teachers were on hand, working in connection
with the congressman, to see that matters went off properly.
The boys were seated at tables, well separated, and the rules governing
the examination explained to them. Then with pencil and paper, and with
the list of questions before them, they set to work.
A hasty glance on the part of Tom showed him that the history
examination, which was the first, was comparatively easy. He had always
been fond of the study, and had a natural aptitude for remembering
names and the dates of important events. There was only one question of
which he was not quite certain, but he realized that the missing of one
would not seriously pull down his average.
He looked around at the other boys, some of whom were writing away
bravely, while others were hopelessly, or helplessly, biting the ends
of their pencils, or else staring up at the ceiling as if to draw
inspiration from that.
Clarence Hawkesbury was seated in front of Tom, and in the next aisle.
As our hero was on his last question, having temporarily passed the one
about which he was in doubt, Tom saw Clarence working with his right
hand partly up the left sleeve of his coat. It was as if the captain’s
nephew was trying to pull down a wrinkled part of his shirt that
annoyed him.
Tom watched, rather idly, and saw Clarence glance quickly around the
room. What he saw, or, rather, what he did not see, appeared to be
satisfactory, for the lad took from the sleeve of his coat a small
folded paper. He glanced at it quickly and then let go of it.
To Tom’s surprise the paper quickly disappeared up the sleeve again,
with a snapping motion that could leave but one inference.
“He’s got some answers written down on a paper, and it’s fastened to a
rubber band up his sleeve,” decided Tom. “He can pull it down, and,
when he lets go of it, the paper snaps back up his sleeve again. It’s a
sharp trick all right.”
It was evident that Clarence had received from his concealed paper the
information he lacked, for he at once began writing rapidly.
“The sneak!” mused Tom. “I can’t tell on him, of course, but if he
passes this exam, and I don’t--!”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing he could do.
Tom turned in his paper, and, a little later, Clarence did the same.
The arrogant youth wore a confident air, and winked his eye at Tom.
The arithmetic and algebra tests were more difficult, but Tom was
pretty sure he had passed, especially in the former. There was one
problem in the binomial theorem that appalled him for a time. But he
set his mind to it, and worked it out in a manner he felt sure was
right.
Once again he saw Clarence surreptitiously refer to a paper which he
pulled down from his sleeve. It was a risky proceeding, as the high
school instructors were walking about the room, looking for any such
cheating. But luck (if one can call it luck) favored Clarence. The
instructor assigned to his section of the room was rather elderly and
near-sighted, and Clarence was not caught.
“Of course I’m not sure he’s using a pony,” thought Tom, “but it
certainly does look so.”
During the noon recess, when the boys were allowed to get some lunch,
there were all sorts of excited talk about the examinations of the
morning. Some declared them “easy,” and others expressed the opinion
that they were “stiff.” Some of the lads, hastily eating a sandwich,
began studying feverishly, in anticipation of the afternoon ordeal.
Tom decided that he would be better off if he freshened his mind with
a walk, for he felt he had done all the studying he could manage with
profit, and he reasoned that the hardest part of the ordeal was over.
Two studies formed the basis for examination in the afternoon, and
two were set down for the following morning. Tom finished about four
o’clock, being one of the first to hand in his papers, and he started
to take the trolley back to Chester.
“Think you passed, Tom?” asked a fellow high school student, who came
along a little later.
“Well, I sure hope so!” Tom answered. “What did you think of it all?”
“Some wasn’t as bad as I was afraid it would be, and part of it was
worse. I’m worried about my algebra.”
“I didn’t think that was so hard, except that one problem. But I
managed to make mine prove, though maybe they won’t pass my method.”
“You’re lucky, Tom!” returned his companion.
Tom was not so sure about that.
“Wait until I see if I get the appointment,” he thought.
Mrs. Taylor was anxiously waiting for her son, and inquired as to how
the examination had gone. Of course Tom could tell nothing definite,
but he and his mother indulged in high hopes. Mrs. Taylor really wanted
Tom to go to West Point, since he had so set his heart on it. She
felt that, somehow, she would raise the necessary hundred dollars for
deposit, even if she had to sell some of the small amount in securities
that she kept against the proverbial rainy day.
Tom was up early next morning, and again made the trip to Preston. Some
of the boys who had been there the day before were not now on hand.
It was whispered that one of them had been caught cheating in getting
information from a fellow competitor. Both had been barred.
“I wonder if one of them was Clarence?” mused Tom, as he heard this
talk going around before the hour set for the final tests.
But when the doors were being closed Clarence came in, tossing aside
the butt of a cigarette.
“Here comes the sport,” some one murmured. Clarence heard it, and
looked up, obviously not ill-pleased.
This examination was more difficult than Tom had anticipated, and he
worked hard over the list of questions. So did most of the other boys,
though a few “took it easy.” But perhaps they recognized the fact that
they had no chance, and so did not worry. Clarence seemed to be writing
diligently.
“He’s evidently going into this for all he’s worth,” thought Tom.
“Well, so am I, for that matter.”
It was something of a nervous strain, and Tom was glad when it was over
and he could hand in his papers and go home.
Then came days of anxious waiting--days in which Tom and his mother
discussed the possibilities of the case from all angles. Had Tom passed
with a high enough average, enough higher than that of the other
candidates, to secure the appointment?
There could be but one lad named, with another as alternate, who, in
case the first one failed in the tests to be conducted at West Point,
would be named for the coveted honor.
Tom dreaded to hear the sound of the postman’s whistle. But for nearly
a week there was no word. Then when Tom felt, in his desperation,
as though he would simply have to telephone to the congressman, and
learn what had been the outcome, there came, addressed to him, a long
legal-looking envelope. In the upper left-hand corner was the imprint
of the congressman’s name. It had come from his private law office in
Preston.
Tom’s fingers trembled, and his heart beat with a smothery, choking
sensation. Had he passed? Would he receive the appointment?
Slowly he tore open the envelope.
CHAPTER IV
SUCCESS
There was a blur before Tom’s eyes; a blur that made the letters and
words on the paper in front of him seem misty and far away. He caught
his breath sharply. He remembered that his mother was watching him
eagerly--anxiously.
“I won’t show the white feather before her, no matter what happens,” he
told himself, fiercely. “If I’ve failed--”
He pulled himself together with an effort. After all, he did not yet
know that he had failed. He brushed his hand across his eyes, and the
blur vanished. He caught sight of one word--“congratulations.”
That could mean but one thing. He must have passed! Quickly he read
enough of the letter from the congressman to gather its import.
It was true. Tom had passed the preliminary examination with the
highest mark!
“Hurrah, Mother!” Tom cried. “It’s all right! I’ve passed! I’ve
won out, Mr. Hutton says! I got the highest marks of any in the
examination, and he’s sent my name as his nominee for West Point to the
Secretary of War. Think of that! To the Secretary of War!”
“Oh, I hope there’ll be no war!” murmured Mrs. Taylor.
“Don’t worry about that part of it, mother!” Tom cried. “Just think of
it! I’m going to be a West Point cadet. That is, if I pass the rest of
the examinations,” he added more soberly.
“Are there more?” asked Mrs. Taylor.
“Oh, yes,” Tom replied. “I’ll have to answer a lot more questions, and
stiffer ones than those they put to us at Preston. I’ll have to go
before the doctors, too. But I’m not worrying about that. I’ll have
some time before the middle of June, when I have to take the final
entrance examinations, and I’ll bone up in the meanwhile. Say, Mother,
this is great!” cried Tom, with shining eyes. “Simply great!”
“I’m glad you have succeeded so far, Tom,” said his mother in a low
voice. “But it will mean a great deal to me to have you away. Still, I
suppose you can come home often. West Point isn’t very far off.”
Tom was silent a moment. His face grew sober.
“No, Mother,” he said, slowly, “I’m afraid I’ll not be able to get back
to see you very often if I go to West Point. Cadets are allowed only
one furlough in the four years. That is, unless something extraordinary
happens. I can come home after I’ve been there two years, but not
before.”
“Oh, Tom!”
“But you can come to see me,” he added, quickly, for he felt a pang
himself at the thought of the long separation.
There were tears in Mrs. Taylor’s eyes as she said, softly:
“Oh, Tom, I almost wish you hadn’t passed!”
He looked at her blankly.
“That is, I don’t want to lose you,” she went on. “But if you have your
heart set on it, I suppose it is all for the best. You can’t remain my
little boy forever.”
Tom felt a lump coming up into his throat, but his mother, seeing which
way matters were going smiled as she said:
“There, Tom! we mustn’t be sad when there’s so much cause for
rejoicing. Of course you must go away. All boys do, sooner or later.
And if you went to college you’d have to leave me.”
“This is better than any college!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “West
Point beats them all, in my estimation. Why, just think of it, they pay
you for learning there! I’ll get real money--that is after a while.
I’ll send you some,” he announced. “But say, Mother, now that I have
passed so far, and there is a chance of my going to the Academy, what
about that hundred dollars deposit? Can we raise it?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll manage somehow. Now let me see your letter. Is that all
Mr. Hutton says, that you have passed?”
“I haven’t read it all myself, yet. That’s as far as I got. Hello,
what’s this?” he exclaimed as his eyes took in the remainder of the
epistle. “Hawkesbury named as alternate! Well, I suppose that’s only
fair, but I’d rather it would have been some one else.”
“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Taylor.
“Why you see, Mother,” Tom explained, “the congressman names two
candidates. The one getting the highest average is first, and the one
who comes second is the alternate. That’s to provide, in case the first
named doesn’t pass the further examinations at West Point, for some one
to take his place, and have a try. Otherwise there’d have to be another
preliminary test. So Clarence Hawkesbury is my alternate; eh?”
“Does that annoy you, Tom?”
“Oh, no. For we’ll not both be in West Point, that is, unless he comes
up again next year in case of a vacancy. It will have to be either him
or me this time, and I rather think,” said Tom, slowly, “it will be I.
I’m going to pass, and make good!”
There was an air of determination about him as he said this that was
good to see.
Tom read the letter over again. It gave few details except those
that have been mentioned, but it contained the information that, in
due time, formal notification would come from the Secretary of War,
directing Tom when and where to apply at West Point for the further
examinations, physical and mental.
Doubtless Clarence Hawkesbury had received a similar letter, and would
also be told to apply at West Point when the time came for the final
entrance examination.
“I only hope he doesn’t travel with me,” thought Tom, for though he had
no ill-feeling against Clarence, yet the rich nephew of the old army
officer had frequently made it unpleasant for Tom when they had met.
Formerly Mr. Taylor and Captain Hawkesbury had been rather intimate
but, with the death of Tom’s father, and the discovery that most of
his fortune had, in some manner, been acquired by the army officer and
Mr. Doolittle, Tom could not help feeling coldly toward both the men.
There was no specific reason for it, but Mrs. Taylor, too, did not like
Captain Hawkesbury. Nor had she any warmer regard for Mr. Doolittle,
though they both offered to do what they could to help settle up the
estate.
The trouble of it was that there was very little left to be settled
up--that is little for Tom and his mother, and Mrs. Taylor preferred
the services of a young lawyer to those of Captain Hawkesbury or Mr.
Doolittle.
In view of this it can easily be imagined that Tom did not have the
warmest feeling in the world for the arrogant and supercilious youth
who was to be his rival--a rival, at least, until the results of the
final entrance examinations were known.
Once the delicious thrill of excitement following the receipt of the
congressman’s letter was over, Tom and his mother began to consider
ways and means. It would mean a change for them if Tom was to live
permanently at West Point for four years. There was much to be done to
get ready. But Tom, in the flush of his first success, made little of
these preparations.
“We’ll manage--somehow,” said Mrs. Taylor, cheerfully.
CHAPTER V
AN ATTACK
A few days after Tom had received the letter from Congressman Hutton,
our hero was further elated to get another missive through the mail.
This came in a long official-looking envelope. It bore the imprint of
the Secretary of War’s office, and came through the post office without
bearing a stamp, which fact further gave Tom an idea of the importance
he was beginning to assume.
“Though of course Clarence got one like it, too, I suppose,” he
thought. “Well, I can’t have everything to myself.”
The letter from the Secretary of War, signed with his own name, much
to Tom’s delight, formally notified our hero of his appointment, and
directed him to report on a certain date, about the middle of June, at
West Point for further examination.
“And now,” decided Tom, after he had shown the secretary’s letter to
his mother and to many admiring friends, “I’m going to buckle down to
hard work. I’ve just got to pass those exams!”
Tom had little doubt as to the result of the physical tests. He was in
fine condition; he had lived a manly, clean life.
He played baseball and football in season, he was a good runner, jumper
and swimmer. In short, he was an average, healthful American lad--a
good all-around athlete, though no phenomenon in any one branch of
sport.
He had been quickly passed by the first doctors who examined him, and
though he realized that the physical tests at West Point would be more
severe, he was not worrying on that score.
“But they may spring something on me in the mental tests that I’m not
ready for,” mused Tom. “So I’m going to buck up.”
With this end in view he went to his high school principal, and had
him map out a course of extra study that would bridge our hero over
several rather shaky places. This was about the middle of May, so Tom
had nearly a full month in which to prepare.
He heard indirectly that Clarence Hawkesbury was doing the same thing,
but Clarence made rather a secret of it. Tom met him one evening in
town, after a moving picture show given under the auspices of a high
school society.
“Well, what’s the good word?” asked Clarence, with an appearance of
good-fellowship Tom knew did not exist. Clarence blew out a cloud of
highly-scented cigarette smoke as he put the question.
“Oh, everything’s lovely,” Tom answered, easily.
“Hear you’re going to West Point with me, as alternate,” went on
Clarence, speaking in unnecessarily loud tones.
“I thought it was the other way around,” responded Tom, slowly. “I
understand you are the alternate.”
“Pooh, you didn’t beat me more than five points on the average,”
boasted Clarence, and this was true enough as far as the mental
examination went. It was not true with the physical, however. “And
I’ll lay you odds of two to one that I stay at West Point and you come
back,” went on Clarence, sneeringly.
“Thank you. I don’t bet,” replied Tom. “But that needn’t stop you,” he
added, for he did not want to be thought a prig.
“Oh, don’t worry! it won’t!” declared the youth, who had more money
than was good for him. He swung off down the street with some cronies,
spenders like himself, and a little later Tom and a chum or two passed
them standing in the door of a poolroom, whence came the click of the
ivory and colored balls.
As Tom passed he saw Clarence and Isaac Blake, two cronies, in close
conversation in one corner of the doorway. Apparently they did not
observe Tom, who heard Isaac remark:
“Think you’ll get a chance at him?”
“I’ll make the chance, if I don’t get it,” muttered Clarence. “If I
can’t get there one way I shall another. Can I depend on you?”
“You sure can,” Ike said, and then Tom heard no more, for he passed on
down the street.
“I wonder who it is they want a chance at?” Tom reflected. But if he
gave it any further thought it was to guess idly that the talk referred
to some one whom Clarence wanted to beat at pool or billiards.
That night Tom sat up late doing some extra studying, for he had
neglected his lessons somewhat in order to go to the picture show.
Tom felt a bit tired the next day. He realized what caused it--studying
too late. His eyes, too, were tired; possibly from pouring too long
over text books, added to the strain of watching what the Scotchman
called the “shiftin’ pictures.”
“I know what I’m going to do,” thought Tom. “I’ll go for a walk down by
the river. It’s a fine day, and it ought to be nice on the water. I’ll
get a boat and go for a row all by myself. I want to calm down. I’ve
been doing too much thinking.”
It was Friday, and because of some special exercises the high school
closed earlier than usual. Tom hurried home, changed into an old suit
that would not be soiled by the water or mud in a boat, and made his
way to the river. There were several pavilions where boats could be
hired, but Tom, feeling rather in the mood for walking, went on until
he had nearly reached the big railroad bridge, not far from which was a
boathouse.
“And to think my father once owned all this land,” Tom mused as he
looked at the big foundations on one side of the river. “If we had
what the railroad company paid for it mother wouldn’t have to work
so hard. Of course money wouldn’t make any difference to me at West
Point. That’s one place where money doesn’t count. But if we had a few
thousands mother could be nearer me, say in New York, and she could run
up to see me once in a while. It’s going to be a long drill--two years
at a stretch. But I guess I can stand it all right.”
Tom was about to proceed to the boathouse to hire a craft, when he was
aware of a figure coming around a bend in the path that led to the
river. A moment later he saw that it was Captain Hawkesbury. Rather a
stern and forbidding figure it was too, for the uncle of Clarence was a
gruff man, though it was said he was very fond of his nephew.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Tom, saluting in what he hoped was the
correct military fashion.
“Um! Afternoon,” was the half-grunted retort. Nor did Captain
Hawkesbury take the trouble to return the salute. Perhaps he did not
see it, or Tom may not have executed it properly.
“Oh, it’s you! is it; young Taylor?” went on the captain, looking at
our hero from under shaggy, heavy eyebrows. “Um! I--er--I understand
you’re going to have a try at West Point, young man.”
“Yes, Captain! I’m going to take the examinations.”
“And my nephew--er--he’s going too?”
“Yes. He’s my alternate!”
Tom could not refrain from that little exultation.
“Um, yes. Well, I don’t wish you any bad luck, young man, but I believe
Clarence will win. He comes of fighting stock, sir! fighting stock!”
and the army captain smote the ground with his cane, making the dirt
fly.
“We have some fighters in our family, too,” Tom said, not to be
outdone. “On my father’s and mother’s side we boast of what our
families did in the Revolution.”
“Um! Oh yes, the Taylors did their share--their share,” admitted
Captain Hawkesbury. “Well, we shall see! We shall see!” and muttering
something under his breath, which Tom was not able to catch, the old
fighter strode along.
“Not a very cheerful sort of man,” thought Tom, as he went down to get
a boat. He thoroughly enjoyed the row on the river, and began to feel
more like himself. He rowed until the lengthening shadows warned him it
was time to return to his home, and a little later he was walking along
the river bank.
Around a bend, near the place where he had met Captain Hawkesbury some
time before, Tom heard voices, two of which at least, were familiar
to him. The possessors of the voices were talking and laughing rather
hilariously.
Suddenly footsteps could be heard, indicating that several persons
were running along the hard-packed path, and a moment later Tom saw
Clarence, Ike and a number of their cronies coming on the run.
“Looks as though they were having a race,” mused Tom.
“Get out the way! Let us pass! Don’t block the path!” called Clarence.
“One side, Taylor, we’re trying to see who’s the best-footed.”
The path was narrow at this point. On one side was the river and on the
other a low, swampy place. Tom had hardly room to get to one side.
“They have nerve,” he mused. “Why couldn’t they wait until they had
room to race. I can’t get out of their way.”
The other lads gave him no chance. On they came swinging toward him,
and, an instant later, as Clarence tried to pass Tom, the rich youth
slid down the bank toward the river.
“Look out!” Tom cried.
“Look out yourself!” retorted Clarence quickly. “What do you mean by
shoving me?”
“I didn’t!” Tom answered.
“And I say you did!” snapped Clarence. “You did it on purpose, and I’ll
make you wish you hadn’t!” He recovered himself and came rushing at Tom
with clenched fists.
CHAPTER VI
OFF TO WEST POINT
Tom was taken almost completely by surprise when the attack came. It
seemed so uncalled for, and so unnecessary. But Tom was not the one to
stand and be struck without giving, in a measure, as good as he took,
particularly when he was not in the wrong.
“I--I’ll show you!” muttered Clarence. He aimed a blow at Tom, but
the latter cleverly dodged and Clarence nearly over-balanced himself,
almost doing what he had wrongfully accused Tom of trying to do, and
falling into the river.
“Soak him, Hawkesbury!” cried the cronies of the rich lad. “Give it to
him good and proper!”
“I will! Watch me!” cried Clarence, and this time his blow landed in
Tom’s face. The pain was stinging, for Clarence was no light hitter,
but Tom came back instantly with as good a return.
In another moment the two boys were fighting, or rather, Clarence was
attacking Tom, who defended himself vigorously. He was at a loss to
account for the real savagery in the onslaught of the other. It was as
though some great enmity were at the bottom of it, instead of being
merely a fancied wrong on the part of Clarence.
The latter missed another heavy blow at Tom, who, in turn, countered,
and swung so cleverly that Clarence was sent swinging backward against
one of his companions.
“Here! Look out what you’re doing there, Taylor!” growled the youth in
question.
“Yes, he’s getting too fresh!” chimed in Ike Blake. “I guess I’ll have
something to say in this racket!”
As Clarence recovered himself, Ike doubled up his fists and the two
of them came at Tom together. Our hero caught his breath. He was not
afraid, but it was manifestly unfair. The injustice of it, however, did
not seem to strike the cronies of Clarence.
The latter reached Tom first, who, being unwilling to take too many
chances, led out with a blow that might have been effective had it
landed. But Clarence dodged, and, a moment later a gruff voice called
out:
“Here! What’s the meaning of this! How dare you attack my nephew? Stop
it at once!”
The boys all turned to see the angry face of Captain Hawkesbury fairly
glaring at them. But most of the anger seemed turned in Tom’s direction.
“Cease that attack at once!” came the order. “You, young Taylor, I
mean!”
Tom was not going to be unjustly accused without a protest.
“Your nephew struck me first!” he retorted. “I was just defending
myself, and it looks as though they all wanted to fight,” he added,
with a nod toward the cronies of the rich and arrogant youth. “I don’t
mind taking one at a time,” Tom said more calmly, “but if they want to
pile on all at once I’m going to quit.”
“This fighting must cease!” declared the captain. “Let my nephew alone,
Taylor!”
“I’m perfectly willing to, if he’ll let me alone. He struck me first.”
“He deliberately got in our way when we were having a race, and nearly
pushed me into the water,” Clarence said.
“That isn’t true,” Tom said, calmly. “And you know it, Hawkesbury!”
Clarence scowled but did not answer.
“Stop this at once!” went on the choleric man. “I forbid this fight to
go on. Clarence, you report to me, and I’ll take this matter up with
Taylor later.”
Tom did not pay much attention to this. He passed on, rather excited
it is true, but feeling that he had not had altogether the worst of it.
“Though I would have had if they’d all piled on me at once, which they
seemed about to do,” Tom mused, as he walked on by himself. “I wonder
what their game was? Could it be that Clarence wanted to ‘do’ me; to
make me lame, or bruise me so I’ll not show up well at the physical
examination in West Point?”
Like a flash there came to Tom the memory of certain words he had
overheard in the billiard hall entrance.
“Clarence Hawkesbury could easily put up a game like that, with the
help of Ike Blake,” he declared. “I wouldn’t be surprised but that was
it.
“If I fell down in the physical test, through being slightly injured,
or something like that, Clarence would stand next for West Point. If
that was his game I’ve got to be on the lookout.”
Tom said nothing to his mother about the attack, accounting for some
scratches and bruises by saying he had had a little mishap while
boating. And as Mrs. Taylor was so busy getting Tom’s things ready for
his trip to the military academy she did not ask many questions.
“Oh, but that’s an unsightly bruise on your face,” she said. “I hope it
will disappear before you go to West Point.”
“I think it will,” Tom said. “And I’ll take good care not to get any
more there,” he mused.
Tom saw nothing of Clarence during the next few days, in which he was
busy getting ready for his trip up the Hudson. He also spent as much
time as he could working on his studies. But in spite of all his hard
work, he felt a horrible fear at times that he would fail to reach the
standard set in the mental tests.
Finally he reached the point where he was in such a nervous state that
one of the high school teachers who was coaching him advised him to
drop his books for a day or two, and live in the open. This Tom did and
his strained nerves came back to normal again.
Mrs. Taylor had raised the hundred dollars that Tom must deposit to be
allowed to take the examination. If he failed it would be returned to
him, less a small charge for board during his stay at West Point. Just
how much his mother had sacrificed to raise this sum Tom never knew.
“But I do wish you had more money to live on, Mother,” he said a few
days before he was to depart for West Point. “You ought to be rich.”
“Riches do not always bring happiness, Tom,” she said.
“They often help a whole lot,” Tom said, with a smile. “But never mind,
Mother, some day when I’m an army officer, or a big engineer, I shall
be able to send you money regularly. Then you won’t have to sew when
you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I like sewing,” said the widow. “I wouldn’t sit around and do
nothing. I couldn’t!”
The days passed more quickly now, at least to Mrs. Taylor, though
Tom thought each one was forty-eight hours long. He planned to go
to New York by train from Chester, and as he would arrive in the
metropolis in the evening, he would stay at a hotel there, and go on
to Highland Falls the next morning. Highland Falls is a village a mile
below West Point, and there most of the prospective candidates stay
before reporting for their examinations. There are plenty of hotel
accommodations there.
Finally the day came. Tom said good-bye to his mother, not without a
choking sensation in his throat, and he had to turn his head away and
blow his nose rather more often than seemed absolutely necessary. She
did not go to the station with him, as she feared she would break down,
and she did not want to give way for Tom’s sake.
“Good-bye,” she faltered. “I--I know you’ll do well, Tom.”
“It won’t be for want of trying,” he answered. And a little later he
found himself at the station, watching the train pull in that was to
take him on the first stage of his trip to historic West Point.
CHAPTER VII
GETTING READY
Our hero was excited, and no wonder. He had gone through many unusual
experiences since he had begun to think of going to West Point, and
now he was on the verge of new ones. He was in a sort of daze. Matters
followed each other so closely that there was little time between to
think properly of them.
“But there’s one thing sure,” he thought to himself, as he sat looking
from the car window as he was being whirled along his way, “there is
one thing sure, and that is that I have the chance I’ve been wanting so
long. If I don’t make the most of it, it will be my own fault.”
He ventured to look about him more calmly now, thinking perhaps he
might see some one in the car whom he knew. But a quick glance through
the coach did not disclose any one, though he noticed two or three lads
about his own age, talking and laughing together.
Tom thought he would like to know them, and he wondered if, by any
chance, they could be in his position--a “plebe” going up to West Point
for the all-important examination. Then another thought came to our
hero.
Where was Clarence Hawkesbury? He, too, was supposed to go to take the
examination on the day Tom reported, which would be the morrow. Where
was Clarence?
“He may have gone on ahead, or he may motor to New York,” Tom thought,
for Captain Hawkesbury had a powerful car, and with his nephew
frequently took long trips.
“I’m just as glad he isn’t going with me,” Tom thought. Then he settled
down to enjoy the journey which would last all day. At noon Tom went
to the dining car for lunch, and there he saw, at the table across the
aisle from him, some of the lads he had noticed in his own coach. He
could overhear some of their talk.
“Well, there’s one thing sure,” remarked a sturdy-looking youth, “if
I don’t get through it isn’t going to kill me, and I won’t have to go
around four years with my back as straight as a ramrod.”
Tom guessed instantly where his fellow-travelers were going, but he did
not like to say anything just yet.
“I don’t mind the examinations so much,” a studious-looking lad
remarked, “but I sure do hate to think of getting hazed. They say it’s
fierce!”
“So I’ve heard,” agreed another. “Pass the celery; will you?”
“If they try to haze me!” exclaimed a heavy-browed youth, “I’ll show
’em they’ll have their hands full.”
“Well, the more trouble you make the more they’ll make,” said the first
speaker with a sigh. “We plebes aren’t supposed to have any rights.”
Tom was sure, now, that the lads across the aisle were “in the same
boat” with himself. He could not refrain from speaking to them.
“I beg your pardon,” he remarked, “but are you going to take the West
Point examinations?”
The others looked at him, rather curiously for a moment, and one of
them said:
“Yes, we are.”
“I’m in the same fix,” went on Tom, quickly. “Do any of you know
anything about what we ought to do when we get there; where to report
and so on?”
In an instant the reserve of the others seemed to melt, and they
welcomed him, figuratively, with open arms. They were companions in a
certain prospective misfortune. It developed that one of the lads had a
relative who had attended West Point, and this relative had given some
valuable advice which the lad, Samuel Leland by name, was glad to share
with Tom and the others.
From then on the talk was of nothing but West Point, and the fear of
hazing formed a large proportion of the conversation. Tom found that
his new friends were going to stop at a different hotel in New York
from that which he had picked out, and he decided to change and go with
them. He was glad he did, for when he arrived in the big city he was
fairly astonished by the bustle and roar. One of the other boys had
been there on several occasions, however, and he acted as guide to the
others.
That night and the next day were a sort of dream to Tom Taylor, for
they decided to postpone their trip to Highland Falls for a day and see
the sights of New York. Tom knew his mother would not object, and if he
succeeded in passing into West Point it would be two years before he
could get away again. He sent his mother a letter from the metropolis.
“Well, we might as well start and get it over with,” remarked Sam
Leland the next day to Tom and the other candidates. They were at the
hotel in New York, and had planned to cross the Hudson to Weehawken, to
take the West Shore railroad, which would bring them to the village a
mile below West Point. There they would stay until next day when they
were due to report for examinations.
“Yes, no use lingering longer here,” agreed Tom. “I can’t enjoy
anything when I think of what’s before me.”
The others confessed the same thing, and, accordingly, soon after lunch
they took the ferry to Weehawken, and in due time were on their way to
Highland Falls, a ride of about two hours.
Tom and the other lads walked up the winding road leading from the
Highland Falls station to the hotel where they were to stop. The
day was warm and the road dusty and they were not feeling any too
comfortable. The little party Tom had fallen in with saw several other
youths toiling up the hill, evidently with the same objective point as
themselves. They, too, were “candidates.”
A bath, a change of linen, and supper made Tom feel much better, and
then came a long evening spent on the hotel porch where were many other
lads, all eager for what lay before them--eager and anxious, most of
them; some so much so that they went about with books in their hands,
gluing their eyes to the pages every now and then. They were “cramming
for exams,” and no greater torture can be devised for a young fellow.
Some of the boys told of having gone up to have a look at West Point
that day, they having been at Highland Falls for some time, preparing
for the ordeal. Some were even being tutored at a special preparatory
school in the neighborhood.
“The farther you fellows keep away from West Point until it’s time for
you to report, the better,” said one lad who seemed to know whereof he
spoke. “Don’t give those cadets a chance to get one in on you, which
they’re sure to do if they see you nosing around up at the barracks
before it’s time. Stay away until it’s time to report.”
This Tom and some of his friends resolved to do. However, they could
not refrain the next morning from going a short distance toward the
group of gray stone buildings that make up the United States Military
Academy. In the distance they could see the cadets passing to and fro,
some of them drilling; and Tom, at least, felt a thrill of anticipation.
“Oh, if I can only get in!” he sighed.
“That’s right!” remarked Leland. “It sure is a great place.”
The next day Tom, and the other candidates, left the Highland Falls
hotel to report to the superintendent of the Academy, which was the
real beginning of the examination that meant so much to them. At last
they were to have a taste of life at West Point, though for some of
them it might last only the few days intervening between their official
entrance and the rigid tests.
On the way to West Point Tom caught a glimpse of Clarence Hawkesbury in
company with some flashily dressed youths. They were riding in a sort
of public coach, and Clarence waved his hand to Tom, as though the best
of feeling existed between them.
“I wonder where the superintendent’s office is?” remarked one of the
youths with Tom. “I don’t suppose we dare speak to any of those high
and mighty cadets to ask.”
“Not if we see any one else,” Tom said. And on their way they met a
soldier--not a cadet--who directed them to the headquarters building,
in which was located the office of the adjutant to whom they were to
report in person.
A number of rather anxious-looking lads were there, and Tom and the
others formed in line to march up stairs. One by one they entered a
room, and presented their credentials to the stiff and severe-looking
officer who sat behind a table. He glanced at their letters of
appointment, checked their names off on a list, and told them to go
down stairs and wait for further instructions.
“Well, I wonder what comes next?” said Tom to his new friends. He soon
learned. A cadet, who, from the stripes on his arm they knew to be a
corporal, came walking stiffly up.
“Here, you candidates!” he cried, in a voice that contained perhaps a
little too much authority. “Turn out! Lively now! Turn out! Form in a
column--by twos! Forward--march!”
There was an uneasy scramble, and a more or less uneven column was
formed to march along with the corporal at the head. He was a martinet,
was that corporal--and he found fault with every one and everything
from the beginning.
“Why, you fellows don’t even know enough to keep step!” he bawled at
them. “Do you know which your left foot is?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, who felt a little nettled at the tone.
“Yes--what?” sharply demanded the corporal, swinging around to face him.
“I thought you said--” stammered Tom.
“Yes--what?” fairly thundered the cadet.
“Say sir,” some one behind Tom whispered.
“Yes--sir!” he answered loudly.
“That’s better!” was the mollified retort. “Don’t forget that sir! I’m
glad some of you know which is your left foot. Now then, step out!”
They managed it a little better now, though doubtless they were awkward
enough.
“Eyes--front!” snapped out the corporal, as some one ventured to look
about. “Eyes--front!”
In due time the awkward squad was marched to one of the barrack
divisions, where the cadet officers, in charge of the candidates,
had their headquarters. There the corporal reported Tom and the
others to a cadet lieutenant who recorded them and assigned them to
quarters--three to a room.
Tom had thought that he and the others would be examined before getting
this far at West Point, but it seemed he did not know all the routine
yet. At least, he was to have a real taste of life before knowing
whether or not he would be allowed to remain.
The ordeal of being recorded by the lieutenant was much more trying
than in the case of the adjutant. Some of the boys forgot the
all-important “sir,” and were sharply rebuked. But in the end they
learned how to answer properly, and to give when they were asked where
they were from, the name of their state, and not the name of their town
or city.
“Don’t forget your ‘misters’ and ‘sirs,’” advised the lieutenant as a
parting shot, when Tom and the other luckless candidates marched off
to the Cadet Store to draw their first supplies--their housekeeping
utensils as it were--for they were to do their own work for a time.
Each candidate received from the Cadet Store a quantity of bedding,
a pillow, a mattress, a broom, a pail and a chair, in addition to a
dipper. These were to be used while they were candidates, and could be
kept if they passed the examinations. If they failed they would have
to turn them in again, and from the hundred dollars deposited would be
deducted the board for the time they had been at West Point.
Tom’s mother had sent this sum on in advance, a fact of which our hero
was aware, though he did not know the source whence the money came.
“Whew! This is some early rising!” exclaimed Sam Leland as he examined
the printed list of “calls” that had been given to them after they had
secured their equipment.
Reveille came at six o’clock, followed half an hour later by breakfast.
At one o’clock dinner was served, and supper came after retreat parade.
Of course the candidates had no part in the parade.
“Oh, six o’clock isn’t so bad--not in summer,” Tom said. He had often
risen earlier than that in winter to do a job of snow-shoveling to earn
money at home.
“Well, it’s early for me,” remarked Clarence Hawkesbury, with a
supercilious grin. “And this dipper is--beastly!” he exclaimed, as he
looked at the one made from half a cocoanut shell that had been issued
to him. “I’m going to buy a collapsible cup,” he declared.
“Better not,” advised some one who knew. “Everything we’re allowed
to have is strictly arranged for, and if you’re caught with anything
contraband--good-night!”
“They won’t catch me!” Clarence said.
Tom hoped Clarence wouldn’t have a chance to be caught, since if
Clarence remained it meant that our hero would have failed. And that he
fiercely made up his mind not to do.
The candidates, with their new belongings, now passed on to their
rooms. Tom was quartered with Sam Leland and a lad named Harry Houston.
He liked them both from the first.
“And now to get ready for the exams,” commented Tom, when they found
themselves in their room.
CHAPTER VIII
A SLIDE FOR LIFE
Tom, who had, with the other two candidates, dragged the bedding and
other things to the room they were to share in common, at least for a
time, looked at his companions. They hardly knew what to do next, for
they had received so many orders and instructions that their minds were
in a whirl.
About them, through the corridors of the building, they could hear
other candidates going to their rooms with their possessions. There was
not much noise, for the “lowly candidates” were beginning to feel how
unimportant they were compared to the “lordly cadets.”
“Here comes some one,” remarked Sam, as they saw their door pushed
open. A corporal--a supercilious and sneering corporal--entered. Watson
his name was, as they learned later.
“Here, you!” he said, sharply. “That’s no way to pile your stuff.
You--what’s your name?” he asked, turning to Harry Houston.
“Er--Houston,” stammered the lad, and in a flash Tom and Sam knew their
friend had forgotten the proper form.
“Mister Houston, sir!” fairly thundered the corporal. “Say it after me!”
“Mister Houston, sir!” imitated the luckless one.
“That’s better,” came in semi-mollified tones. “Now I’ll show you how
to get your room into shape--and keep it so!” he added impressively.
“You’ll be inspected when you least look for it. Don’t get caught,
whatever you do!”
His manner was so important that Tom, at least, resolved that there
should not be a pin out of place. The corporal showed them how to make
up their cots. He indicated the official Blue Book, a copy of which
was required to be kept at all times in a certain place in the room.
This book gave minute directions for keeping the room in order, and
specified much as to the candidate’s conduct.
Though neither Tom nor his companions were cadets yet, the strictest
military discipline must be observed by them. They had to report on
leaving their room, and on coming back, and they could not leave unless
it was absolutely necessary. It was a hard life, but doubtless it had
the intended effect.
Once the beds were arranged to the liking of the corporal, and he
was not easy to please, Tom and the others were taught to stand at
“attention.” This position--as stiff as a ramrod, with eyes straight to
the front, and never, by any chance, allowed to rest on the countenance
of the officer--must be maintained whenever any cadet officer, or the
tactical officer in charge of instructions, came into the quarters of
the candidate. The tactical officers were called “tacs,” and were army
officers, graduates from the Academy, who, in turn, were stationed for
four years at West Point to give military instruction.
“And we’ve got to look out for the tacs,” said Sam Leland, when the
corporal had left them alone for a time. “They’re always showing up
when you least expect them, and if they find a thing out of place in
your room--fare thee well, gentle maiden!” and he sighed, and dropped
wearily into a chair.
“Well, if I don’t get something to eat pretty soon, they won’t have any
trouble with me, nor I with them,” observed Harry.
“Why?” asked Tom, curiously.
“I’ll drop dead from hunger--that’s why. I wonder if they’ll give me
a funeral with full military honors in case I die on their hands?” he
asked, whimsically.
“No such luck!” returned Tom, with a laugh. “But I think it must be
time for dinner. It’s one o’clock and there goes a crowd of the cadets
toward the dining hall.”
They looked from the window to observe the nattily dressed lads march
along to stirring music. Presently came the summons the candidates were
waiting for. In columns of twos they marched to the mess hall, entering
last, and were given seats at a table some distance removed from that
at which the yearlings, or cadets who had been at the Academy a year,
were to eat.
The dinner was excellent, but there was no lingering over it. When the
candidates had been marched back to their barracks Tom and his chums
decided to put in some time at studying. Twice while they were at
work a corporal came in to inspect their room, and each time they had
to rise smartly, and stand at attention until he went out. No fault
could be found with the lads themselves or their room, and at this the
corporal seemed to be deeply disappointed.
Studying went on until parade time, which brought with it a rigid
inspection of each candidate in person, from his collar to his shoes.
Some were reprimanded for not being neat enough.
“Parade rest!” came the order after inspection, after which there
boomed out on the evening air the sound of the retreat gun. Then
followed a march to the mess hall for supper.
“And now for some more boning,” Tom observed with a sigh, when he and
his three chums were in their room again.
“Say, we’re not getting an awful lot of fun out of this,” said Sam, as
he opened his arithmetic.
“We didn’t exactly come here for fun,” Harry remarked.
Tom looked critically over the room, and straightened a pillow on his
bed, for he knew that inspection was timed for nine-thirty, and he
wanted no reproof.
The “tac” came in, looked over everything with a coldly calm and
critical eye, while Tom and his chums stood stiffly at attention.
“Make up your beds,” he said to them, as he went out, and they breathed
easier.
They would be allowed to have a light until ten o’clock. At that
hour taps was sounded--three beats of a drum--at which signal every
candidate must be in bed, with lights out. A dark-lantern inspection
would follow some time later, and it would not be well for any of the
new lads to be caught with a gleam of light in his room, nor must he be
anywhere but between the covers, and with his room in perfect order. It
certainly was a life of military hardship and exactness from the very
start. And, as yet, none of the lads knew whether he was to be a cadet
eventually or not.
You may be sure Tom and his two new chums did not oversleep the next
morning. They were dressed and waiting for the sound of the reveille
gun which presently boomed out, followed by the thunder of drums and
the shrill squealing of fifes in the hall below.
“Candidates turn out!” came the command, and the new lads came pouring
from their rooms, helter-skelter, anxious not to be late.
“And now for the ordeal,” groaned Tom, as, after breakfast, he and the
others, in squads of ten, were marched toward the cadet hospital, where
they were to undergo a searching physical examination.
Three army surgeons, grim and grizzled, went over each boy minutely.
Their feet were looked at, for the United States government, as well as
that of other nations, has found that a soldier to be of value must not
be troubled with corns and ingrowing nails. It impedes his marching.
And as a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, so a company can
march no faster than its poorest walker. No poor walkers are wanted.
And teeth--
“You’d think we were horses up for sale,” complained Clarence
Hawkesbury, after one of the doctors had made him and the others open
their mouths. Some one recalled the old joke about the recruit who was
rejected because of poor teeth. He had said he wanted to shoot the
enemy, not to bite ’em!
But, after all, a soldier’s digestion depends in a great measure on his
ability to chew often not tender food. And among the few true things
said about war is that “an army fights on its stomach.” No soldier can
be a first-class one if he has such bad teeth that he cannot chew well.
It was a most searching examination, and no one knew whether he had
passed or not, for the doctors merely looked wise and jotted down notes
on papers before them.
However, it developed during the day that some of the candidates
had been rejected as physically unfit, and as Tom and his two chums
received no notification that they had not passed, they took it for
granted that they had gone through--as they had.
In due time came the mental examinations. It was a grilling experience
for all, and a number of lads were on the verge of nervous breakdown
before it was over.
However, Tom had made an excellent preparation and he felt sure he had
gone through, if not with flying colors, at least on a safe margin. The
examination was more severe than he had imagined it would be.
Several days were consumed in getting through with the examinations,
as nothing was done hurriedly. The candidates were kept to themselves
during this period, and though the upper classmen were forbidden to
come to the barracks while the candidates were there, the rule was
often violated, and mild hazing was indulged in, especially in the
bathrooms. Some of the boys were made to give an imitation of swimming,
as they lay face downward on a chair.
It was one day, after a particularly hard examination, that Tom went in
to freshen up with a bath. As he undressed he was suddenly seized by a
couple of yearlings, one of whom yelled in his ear:
“Now for the slide for life!”
“Chuck that water on the floor,” said the other cadet to Tom, who
emptied a pail on the tiles of the bathroom.
“Now slide!” cried the two together. Deftly they tripped Tom up. He
fell rather heavily, and was given a shove that carried him across
the slippery, wet floor up against the other side of the bathroom
with a force that jarred the breath from him, and made him feel sick
and dizzy. Tom’s head swam and black spots danced before his eyes. He
feared he was going to faint, but held himself back from the brink with
an effort, as he heard a sharp voice saying:
“Here! That’s enough! Don’t you know what’ll happen if you’re caught at
that?”
CHAPTER IX
CAPTAIN HAWKESBURY
Tom managed to stand up, though he felt weak and dizzy. He saw rather
sheepish looks on the faces of the two yearlings who had begun to haze
him. Behind them stood one of the older cadets.
“You’d better go,” he said to the two hazers. Then of Tom he asked in
not unkindly tone: “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom answered, saluting, though had it not been for the pain
of bruises he would have felt like laughing, standing at attention as
he was, ready for his bath.
The older cadet said nothing more. Doubtless he understood. For hazing
at West Point is severely prohibited now, though doubtless a mild form
goes on more or less surreptitiously.
Tom took a hot bath, which made him feel better, and when he had gone
under the stinging shower he was braced up sufficiently to make him
almost forget his painful bruises, for they did hurt.
Our hero did not feel any resentment against the lads who had started
him on the “slide for life,” as it used to be called. It was part of
the game, though a forbidden part. And Tom knew better than to make a
fuss about it. His life would have been miserable from then on had he
done so.
After all, hazing, if not too severe and if it is unaccompanied by
indignities that lower one’s self-respect, has its use in the world. It
teaches a young man certain lessons that are hard to drill into him in
other ways. But hazing, as it is often done in schools and colleges,
is sometimes a silly performance, and sometimes a positively harmful
proceeding.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Harry Houston, a little later, as the
three new chums were in their barrack room. “You walk lame.”
“Oh, I got a little bump in the bathroom,” Tom answered, evasively.
“Huh! I think I can guess how,” said Sam. “I didn’t have it so easy
yesterday, myself. But it’s all in the day’s work.”
The next day was the last of the examinations, and there were evidences
of relief on all sides. But still there was the haunting fear in the
heart of every candidate that he had not passed. It would be about two
days before the results would be announced, and those two days are,
perhaps, filled with more agony than any others in the life of a West
Pointer, except, it may be, when the final examinations come.
During the two days of waiting there had been little to occupy the
attention of the candidates. They were obliged to keep to their rooms
most of the time, and dismal enough it was, too. But there was no help
for it.
“I do wish they’d hurry up and end the suspense,” cried Harry one
day when it was rumored that the results were to be made known that
afternoon.
“Yes, it’s like keeping a fellow on pins and needles all the while,”
agreed Sam.
“Hark!” exclaimed Tom, rising to his feet. “I think--”
“Candidates turn out promptly!” came an order, interrupting him. “Turn
out!”
“They’re going to make the announcements,” Sam said, and his hands
trembled as he reached for his cap.
Tom said nothing, but gritted his teeth. If he had failed--well, he had
made a brave attempt.
Downstairs went the candidates, all of them eagerly anxious, and
perhaps not one but was nervously anxious. Their faces showed the
strain they were under.
In the area they were formed in a single rank, while in front of them
stood the adjutant of the Academy--the same one to whom Tom and the
others had reported the first day of their arrival.
He announced that those whose names he called were to step two paces
to the front, the others were to maintain their place in the ranks.
The name-calling followed immediately, in alphabetical order, and,
one after another, certain lads stepped out. Tom’s name would come
far down on the list. He listened when the “H” division was reached,
but Houston’s was not called. Nor was Leland’s. And the adjutant went
through the “T” column without mentioning Tom.
Our hero was puzzled. Had he failed? Why had his name not been called
if he passed? No one seemed to understand what it was all about or what
system was being followed.
Finally the reading was over. In front, two paces in advance of one
line, stood another row of cadets. The front rank was the smaller in
number.
Then, with wildly-beating hearts, Tom and the others listened to the
words of the adjutant. Those whose names had been called, he stated,
had failed in their examinations, and could not continue at the
Academy. They would turn in their equipment and withdraw. The others
would remain, and start on their four years’ training to become army
officers.
“Then I’ve passed!” Tom said, exultantly to himself. “I’ve passed and
Clarence hasn’t!”
He wanted to laugh, to shout and yell at his good fortune. Not that he
wanted to gloat over the failure of young Hawkesbury. It was just that
Tom was fully alive to what it meant to him to have succeeded.
There was a deep silence following the announcement of the adjutant.
Doubtless others of the successful ones than Tom wanted to laugh and
shout, but they had to refrain. And probably those who had failed had
hard work to keep back the tears of disappointment. For after all, they
were only boys around seventeen years of age, and disappointment is
keener than later, just as success is more sweet.
But it was all very cold and impartial at the West Point Academy. No
one congratulated the successful ones, though when ranks were broken
they did exult among themselves. And there was small comfort for the
losers, most of whom, however, accepted it gamely.
“I’m glad I don’t have to go through the four years’ grind,” said one
lad, who, it was rumored, was quite wealthy. “I’m going out West on a
ranch now, and do some real living.”
Later on, when hard work came, Tom often envied him. But Tom was not
going to turn back now.
“Well, old man, we made it!” said Harry, as he shook Tom’s hand, once
they were in their room again.
“That’s what we did!” declared Sam. “Oh, but I was shaky!”
“So was I,” Tom admitted, with a laugh.
Those who had been “found”--which means they had lost the
examination--lost little time in turning in their belongings, and
taking the train back to their homes. Some declared they would make
another attempt next year, while others went off, sullenly angry.
“And now for uniforms!” exclaimed Harry, a little later. “No more
‘cits,’ for at least two years, when we get our first furlough.” The
clothes Tom and his chums had worn up to this time had been those they
brought from home. They were the attire of civilians, or citizens,
which last word has been abbreviated to “cits” by the cadets.
“We’ll get any old sort of a uniform now,” said Sam, who had been
forewarned. “Later on we’ll be measured for one that fits, and then
melted and poured into it.”
Indeed so well did the clothes of the cadets fit them that the simile
of Sam was not inappropriate.
Each of the successful candidates received two pairs of uniform shoes,
two pairs of gray flannel trousers, a gray blouse and a cap.
“Now we really are somebody!” exclaimed Tom, with a sigh of content as
he surveyed himself in the small mirror allowed in their room.
“Well, yes, it’s a beginning,” said Sam.
The next day they were marched to headquarters, to take the oath of
allegiance to the United States, to serve for eight years, unless
sooner discharged. Each lad had to pay a twenty-five cent fee to an old
clerk, who acted as notary public in administering the oath.
It was when Tom and the others were coming from drill, a few days
later, with aching shoulders and legs--for the ordeal had been
severe--that our hero received a surprise.
With his chums he was passing along the parade ground, when he saw
approaching an officer whose figure seemed vaguely familiar. The
“plebes” saluted as they passed him. Tom had a look at his face.
“Captain Hawkesbury!” murmured Tom, under his breath. “What can he be
doing here?” he asked Sam, as he passed on, getting a sharp look from
the glittering eyes of Clarence’s uncle.
“Who?” asked Sam.
“That officer--Captain Hawkesbury,” Tom went on, indicating the man
they had just passed.
“Oh, him. Why he’s been assigned here from the regular army, I heard,
to give special instruction. Why, do you know him?”
“Yes, and I--I wish I didn’t,” murmured Tom. He felt a vague sense of
foreboding. What would the presence of Captain Hawkesbury mean to our
hero at West Point, when Tom had been successful over the officer’s
favorite nephew? Tom was apprehensive.
CHAPTER X
ANTICIPATIONS
“This certainly isn’t any cinch!”
“I should say not! It’s the hardest grind I was ever up against!”
“Well, you didn’t expect to live in a perpetual camp, with nothing to
do; did you?”
It was Sam Leland who gave utterance to the first remark, and Harry
Houston who spoke the second, with a doleful shake of his head. And it
was Tom Taylor who propounded the question.
The three new cadets, as our three friends were officially designated,
though in reality they were called plebes, and would be for the next
year to come, were in their barrack room, having just come in from a
long and tiresome drill. They were taking what ease they could before
they would again be called upon to take up some other of their new
military duties.
“Camp! I should say it wasn’t like camp!” exclaimed Sam. Shortly before
the three chums had been telling one another some of their experiences
before they came to West Point, and all had agreed that the fun they
had had while camping in the summer was best of all.
“Oh well, we’ll have a taste of camp life here,” observed Harry, as he
looked around the room, to make sure it was in perfect order against
the unexpected inspection of some “tac.”
“Yes we’ll have a taste of it, and that’s about all!” Tom went on.
“We’ll have to drill harder than we do now, and we’ll have to wait on
some of the upper classmen like slaves.”
“Oh well, I suppose it’s good for what ails us,” said Sam, with a sigh.
“If the others went through with it I guess we can stand it.”
“There’s no getting out of it. We’re here for four years, if we’re
lucky enough to stick,” Tom ventured. “After all, we won’t always be in
the awkward squad.”
“We were lucky enough not to be put in the ‘goats,’” remarked Sam.
“Well, I’m going to take it easy. Listen if you hear any one coming,”
and he took a restful position that would not allow him to spring
easily to attention in case of the unexpected entrance of a “tac,” but
he depended on the sharp ears of his companions to warn him.
The boys, as I have said, had just come in from some hard drilling.
This necessary instruction had begun as soon as they had formally been
sworn in as subjects of the United States. Four hours a day were
devoted to “setting-up” exercises, the drill-masters being cadets from
the upper classes, each one of whom was given charge over eight plebes.
And stern drill-masters they were, too, though perhaps not more so than
the necessity required. Certainly a plebe is very awkward, compared
with the military uprightness, sprightliness and precision of the
finished cadet.
Tom never told his mother all he suffered, mentally and physically,
during those first few weeks when he was being given the rudiments of a
military education. He and his two companions who roomed together were
forced to march here and there, back and forth, in all sorts of primary
formations. They had to walk with chins drawn in, stomachs pulled up,
with shoulders farther back than it seemed possible to force them,
and they must never suffer themselves to slump out of this tiresome
position. At least it was tiresome then, though later it became a fixed
posture, that the trained cadet assumed naturally.
Then they had to march under a hot sun, and before the eyes of such
chance visitors and excursionists as came to West Point, and these
visitors did not always restrain their smiles or laughter at the antics
of the awkward squad.
“I’d like to see how some of them would like it,” complained Tom, after
a particularly hard drill, when he and his chums had detected a bevy
of pretty girls smiling at them.
“They’ll be glad enough, later, to have us ask ’em to a hop,” said Sam.
“Huh! Catch me asking any of them!” commented Harry, vindictively.
It is no wonder the boys were mentally depressed the first few days
after their ordeal began--mentally depressed and physically weary. They
tried to realize that it was all for their good, but it was not easy.
“I thought we’d have some larks when we came here,” observed Sam. “All
the stories I ever read about life at West Point were lively.”
“I guess some of the fellows who wrote those stories never came up as
far as Newburgh,” sighed Tom. “It isn’t very lively.”
It certainly was not. The new cadets did not have as much fun as they
would have had at a boarding school or a college where there was not
so much discipline. But on the one hand, this strict discipline was
necessary as the basis of a military education, and on the other hand,
there was scarcely a plebe who had the mental or physical energy to
go out after any fun at the close of a day’s drill, provided such fun
could have been had without undue risk.
In fact, there was not much that could be done in the way of outside
fun those first few weeks. Every hour of the new cadet’s life must be
accounted for. His comings and goings had to be reported on the second.
His superior officers must know where he was, and what he was doing,
every minute of the day or night. And it was too much of a risk to
“take any chances.”
“I think we’ll get the guns, to-day,” observed Tom, one morning about a
week after they had begun to receive their drill instructions.
“What makes you think so?” asked Sam.
“I heard some of the officers talking about it.”
“Well, it will be something new to occupy us,” went on Sam.
“Yes, another load to carry around in the broiling sun,” said Harry,
with a groan. “Just as if we didn’t have enough now. Say, fellows,” he
went on, with a sigh, “do I bend over backwards when I stand up?” and
he stood up straight and turned slowly around.
“Bend over backwards? What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“I mean I’ve been hollered at so much to ‘straighten up’ that I’m sure
I must be getting curvature of the spine the wrong way.”
“They certainly do throw it into us,” observed Tom, sympathetically.
“All that fierce drill-master of ours can think to call us is ‘wooden’
and ‘gross’,” went on Harry. “I’m sick of the sound of it. But maybe
if we get the guns it won’t be so bad. It’ll be a change, anyhow, and
give ’em a chance to ring in some new terms of abuse.”
Up to now the new cadets had drilled without weapons. But that day, as
Tom had anticipated, rifles were issued to those farthest advanced,
including our three friends. The “plebes” were divided into squads, the
least proficient being dubbed “goats” and Tom and his chums rejoiced
that this was not their fate.
It was the first day of the drill with arms, and what little knowledge
the boys seemed to have previously acquired appeared to be oozing away
from them, as they were told how to handle the rifles.
The cadet drill-master waxed wroth, and when Tom saw, coming toward the
squad he was in, Captain Hawkesbury, with a look of contempt on his
flushed face, our hero thought to himself:
“Here’s where we get it.”
And they did. The old army officer, whatever else he was, was a good
soldier and disciplinarian, and he and the cadet officer put the plebes
through their paces without mercy.
Whether it was Tom’s fault or not, or whether Captain Hawkesbury
singled him out, was not apparent, but, at any rate, Tom received
more reprimands than any of the others. Captain Hawkesbury spoke
sharply, almost insultingly, so that even the cadet lieutenant looked
surprised. But Captain Hawkesbury was his superior officer, having been
engaged for just such special instruction work.
“He sure has it in for me,” mused Tom, after an especially sharp
rebuke. “I’ve got to expect a lot of this, I suppose, because I beat
Clarence out in the test. I wonder where Clarence is, anyhow?”
The nephew had left West Point when it became apparent that Tom had
made good, and he had not been seen since.
Again and again Captain Hawkesbury, either intentionally or otherwise,
showed his enmity against Tom as the day’s drilling proceeded. And it
culminated when Tom made a slight mistake in following a complicated
order.
“Mr. Taylor, you seem deliberately trying to do this wrong!” snapped
Captain Hawkesbury. “Report at my office after dismissal!”
Tom knew better than to show any resentment. But when he left his chums
to obey the command later, his heart was filled with apprehensions.
CHAPTER XI
A LARK
Captain Hawkesbury received Tom with a grim smile. In his heart Tom
felt a deep dislike for this man who, in some manner or other, had so
profited by Mr. Taylor’s tangled property affairs.
It was an open secret in and around Chester that Captain Hawkesbury and
Aaron Doolittle had made a small fortune simply out of the sale of the
land to the railroad company, for instead of taking all cash they had
been given certain shares in the company, which shares had doubled in
value very shortly.
“And my mother might have had those shares if things--well, if things
had gone differently,” mused Tom. “I wonder if there’s any chance of
ever getting back part of that money--or having a claim on the land
which the railroad company would have to settle for with us?”
Tom had often had these thoughts, but he was no day-dreamer, and
the hard realities of life left him little time to indulge in such
speculations.
“I guess I’ll just have to grind along until I graduate,” he mused.
“Then I may make enough so that mother won’t have to work any more.”
He, as well as the other cadets at West Point, was paid a small salary
while studying, the money being held for them until the completion of
their four years’ service.
“I’ll have that to start with, anyhow,” Tom reasoned, as he faced the
grim old army officer.
“Mr. Taylor,” began Captain Hawkesbury, in rasping tones, “you don’t
seem to show the right spirit at drill.”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to do anything out of the way, sir,” Tom
replied, after his salute.
“Don’t answer me back!” was the snapping retort. “You haven’t a good
carriage. I think I can improve it. Stand up straight now and I’ll give
you some exercises. Straighter!” was the sharp order, and Tom threw
back his shoulders until he had a pain in the middle of his back.
And then for over an hour Captain Hawkesbury made him stand in a
strained position, at times ordering him to go through certain
exercises, more tiring than the standing. And all the while there was a
mean grin on the face of the crabbed old man. He seemed to take delight
in Tom’s discomfiture, and no doubt he did. He was strictly within his
rights--Tom knew that--but, none the less, our hero was sure the ordeal
he had to go through was devised solely as a personal punishment to
gratify the spleen of Captain Hawkesbury because Tom had defeated the
captain’s nephew.
Tom was as limp as a rag when he was allowed to go back to his room,
and his chums commiserated with him as he told them of what he had gone
through.
“The old scab!” ejaculated Sam.
“We ought to haze him!” declared Harry.
“I’m afraid you won’t get a chance to do that,” Tom said. “The only
thing for me to do is to keep as much out of his way as possible. And
that isn’t going to be easy. This is certainly fierce!” and he drooped
his aching shoulders to ease them from the long strain.
“Cheer up! There’s a little relief in sight,” Harry said.
“What’s that?” Tom asked.
“Orders have been published saying we’re to go to camp. It will be
different there, at least.”
“Good!” Tom cried, animation showing on his face. “It’s getting too hot
in barracks.”
The new cadets had had three weeks of almost constant drilling, in
setting-up exercises, marching, and the manual of arms; and now came
a change. Each lad received four pairs of white duck trousers, in
anticipation of camp life, at least that number being necessary to
enable them to look neat, for the white material soiled quickly, and
neatness is one of the fundamental requirements at West Point.
Up to now the new cadets had not mingled in the least with the upper
classmen. There would be no association for the following year, it
being the policy at the Military Academy to keep the first-year men
separated from the second, third and fourth year classes. But though
there would be no mingling there would be more or less association
in camp with the third and fourth year men. The second class was on
furlough, there being but one during the four years’ course, coming at
the conclusion of the second year.
Divided into companies, according to the height of the men, Tom and his
friends were marched over to camp, where the white tents, in precise
rows, nestled under the shade of the maple trees near the banks of the
historic Hudson. The “plebes” had been looking toward it for some time
with longing eyes, but it was a place they were forbidden to approach
until sent there to spend part of the summer receiving instruction.
With brooms, buckets, bedding and personal property, the new
cadets tramped over the cavalry plain toward the rows of cool and
inviting-looking tents. Naturally the arrival of the “plebes” attracted
the attention of the upper classmen, who indulged in all manner of
good-natured gibes against the unfortunates. This went on until the
new lads were divided off into different companies.
As but two cadets would occupy the same tent Tom, Harry and Sam were to
be separated. But only one tent apart, they were glad to note. Tom and
Sam bunked together, while Harry went in with a lad named Chad Wilson,
from New Jersey, a lad to whom Tom and his chums had taken a great
liking.
“Well, now let’s get straightened out,” Tom suggested to Sam as they
piled their belongings on the floor of the tent. Some of the older
cadets kindly showed our friends how to sling their “stretchers,”
a canvas holder that hung from the ridge-pole of the tent. In this
stretcher is put clothing and everything that cannot be gotten in the
lockers that stand on the floor. The tent of Tom and Sam was soon in
proper and perfect shape for inspection.
“Say, they’re all right--those fellows!” exclaimed Sam, as the two
upper classmen left, having spent some time showing him and Tom how to
arrange their tent. “I like them.”
“Don’t let ’em know it,” advised Tom.
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll freeze to us and make us their ‘special duty’ men.
They probably will anyhow.”
“What’s ‘special duty’ men?” Sam wanted to know.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
And Sam did. A little later he and Tom were detailed to keep in order
the tent of the two third-year cadets who had showed them how to
arrange their bedding that first day. And for the remainder of that
camp the two “plebes” were obliged to do all sorts of services for the
upper classmen, from making contraband lemonade to going on errands and
writing their less important letters.
In exchange the protection of the upper-class cadets was thrown around
their special duty men. No other cadet was allowed to utilize their
services, nor even to haze them mildly. And Tom and Sam also were
given much friendly advice, help in their studies, and acquired some
cast-off, but very good, clothing that came in very handy for lads
whose spending money was limited.
So life at camp began, and it was a welcome change, in a way, from the
former system of drilling. Not that it was any easier, for the plebes
had much to learn. More than once did Tom fall under the stern eye
of Captain Hawkesbury who seemed to single our hero out for special
reproof.
One day when Tom was sent to the old army officer’s tent, he saw, on
a table amid a pile of other letters, one that bore the scrawling
signature of Aaron Doolittle. A puff of wind blew the epistle to the
floor, and Tom, who picked it up, could not help seeing part of one
sentence.
These words seemed fairly to stare out at him: “The Railroad Company
is not altogether satisfied about bridge land title. We’ll have to get
together on it soon.”
“Now what in the world can that mean?” thought Tom, as he placed the
letter back with the others. “If I could only get a good lawyer to take
up our case I might find there was something coming to my mother from
that land. But I guess it isn’t of much use. Poor mother! If Captain
Hawkesbury knows anything about any money due us he’s keeping it mighty
secret.”
But Tom’s speculations concerning the strange meaning of the sentence
in the letter were brought to an abrupt end, at least for the time
being, that same night.
There had been hard and gruelling drill, and a mild spirit of revolt
was abroad among some of the “plebes.” Word was passed around that
a lark was in prospect. Some of the boys were going to play a trick
on one or two of the sentries. Tom had a chance to go in on it but
refused, and he was glad, later, that he had stayed out.
For the lark was a fizzle. The sentries had been informed beforehand
about the trick, and nearly captured those who intended to take their
guns away from them. The officer of the day, the officer of the guard
and the sergeant came out on the alarm and a chase of the luckless
cadets resulted.
Tom was in his tent when Sam entered hurriedly, barely managing to slip
in past the sentinel in the Company street.
“Narrow squeak!” Sam murmured. “Mum’s the word, Tom, old man.”
“Sure!” Tom answered. In the next tent he could hear Harry and Chad
going in hurriedly, to undress and get into bed before a general
inspection was made.
And hardly had Sam pulled the clothes over him before one of the
sentries with a dark-lantern came in.
Sam gave an audible snore, and Tom followed his example.
CHAPTER XII
TOM’S REFUSAL
“Mighty good sleepers in here!” muttered the sentry as he flashed his
lantern in the faces of Tom and Sam. “Mighty good!”
He was an experienced man, and, doubtless had played the same trick
himself many a time. He stooped and looked under the cots where the
shoes of the “plebes” should have been. Tom knew what was going on and
he felt sure that Sam must have left his soil-begrimed shoes in plain
sight.
But Tom had not given his tent-mate credit for some common sense. Sam
had guessed that shoes would be looked at, since there was some mud
about the camp that day. So Sam had put his shoes in his locker, and
had taken out a clean pair which he put at the foot of his cot.
The sentry grunted as he detected no signs of mud on the leather, and
again flashed his light in the faces of the two lads, having, by a
quick look, ascertained that the tent was in proper order.
“Um!” grunted the sentry, as he was about to leave, baffled.
“Eh? What’s that? Who’s here? What’s the trouble?” asked Sam,
pretending to awaken suddenly and blinking his eyes at the light. “I
say, Tom!” he went on, with an air of innocence that became him well.
“Something’s going on all right!”
“There’ll be more before there’s less,” growled the sentry. “Mighty
innocent, you two!”
He went out and Tom and Sam refrained from talk for some time, for they
realized that he might come sneaking softly back to overhear any words
that might give him a clue.
At last, however, as several minutes passed, and nothing happened, Sam
ventured to whisper, and told Tom all that had occurred. Though Tom was
not in on the lark he had all the facts, and knew those who had taken
part in it.
For some time search went on through the streets of white tents but, as
far as could be learned, none of the culprits was discovered. Finally
quiet settled down over the camp, and Tom and Sam really slept.
The next morning, of course, there was an effort made to discover those
responsible for the attempted outrage, as Captain Hawkesbury termed
it. He was one of the chief investigators, and he stormed around,
telling what he would do to the culprits when he discovered them.
“But first you’ve got to catch them,” murmured Harry, who had, like
Sam, escaped by a narrow margin. “Nobody will peach.”
Of course that was not to be thought of, and the code of morals at West
Point would allow of no lying. If any of the guilty ones had been asked
directly if he had taken part in the fracas of the night, not one would
have denied it.
But it was not the policy of the investigators to ask the direct
question. They wanted to be in a position to make an accusation,
have the necessary evidence, and then mete out the just punishment.
That is, it was the policy of all but one man, and that was the old
army officer, Captain Hawkesbury. Whether he had forgotten the code
of morals to which he had formerly subscribed when at West Point or
whether he chose to ignore it, was not plain.
At any rate he seemed determined to find out, by hook or crook, who
were the guilty ones, and he took the meanest method of doing this. He
sent for Tom and demanded to know of him whether or not Sam, Harry or
Chad had had a part in the night’s lark.
At first Tom was too surprised to answer. Though he had not been long
at West Point he realized that this questioning, to make one cadet
report on another, was without precedent.
“I refuse to answer, Captain Hawkesbury,” Tom said.
“What! You dare refuse me?”
“I feel that I must.”
“Then you know some of the guilty ones?” and the old officer leered up
into Tom’s face.
“I refuse to answer that also.”
“It won’t do you any good. I have positive information that you know
the guilty ones, and I demand that you give me their names!”
“And I, much as I regret it, respectfully refuse,” said Tom, firmly.
“Then I’ll make you tell!” declared the captain in angry passion.
Tom felt that he was in trouble.
For a moment or two the man who had so benefited by Tom’s father’s
money--legally or illegally--seemed to be considering the case. Then,
he appeared to make up his mind.
“Six hours of guard duty as a starter!” he snapped. “If that doesn’t
bring you to your senses I’ll try something else. If you want to tell,”
he went on, in a wheedling tone, “I will be in a position to get you
some special privileges. Perhaps even a furlough.”
This was almost unheard of for a plebe, and Tom knew it. He also knew
that Captain Hawkesbury had some underhand power, but whether he could
exert it over army officers, however much he might with politicians,
was a matter of conjecture.
“Are you going to tell?” he demanded, banging his fist down on his
table so that the papers danced.
“No, sir,” answered Tom, quietly.
“Then go on guard! I’ll see you later!” was the cold retort.
Doing guard duty on a hot day, in a stiff uniform, carrying a heavy gun
in the broiling sun, is not an easy task. Tom found it very trying, but
not for an instant did he falter in his determination to refuse to tell
what he knew.
His companions waxed indignant, and there was a hurried meeting of the
“plebes.” The guilty ones offered to confess to save Tom from further
punishment, but he heard of it, and refused to accept the sacrifice.
“I can stick it out!” he said.
“But what if there is more to come?” asked Sam. “He may lock you up as
a prisoner, and cut off every privilege.”
“Let him,” said Tom.
But Captain Hawkesbury did not go that far. Whether he dared not, or
whether those higher in authority stepped in and released Tom, never
became known.
Certain it was that Tom was relieved from guard duty, and nothing was
said about further punishment. He went to his tent worn out and weary,
but his spirit was not broken, and he had not told.
“But he’ll be more my enemy than ever,” mused Tom, for he felt that
the old army officer would be chagrined that he could not inflict some
punishment on the guilty ones.
However, those taking part in the frolic, were never officially known,
and the matter passed into West Point history, with other similar cases.
Meanwhile, the drill work at the camp went on, and Tom was beginning to
feel that he was slowly getting on to the road which would lead him to
his place as an officer in the United States army. From time to time he
wondered how his mother was getting on. He had letters, of course, and
they seemed to be bright and cheery ones. But Tom knew that even if she
suffered she would write that way.
“Hang it all!” he would exclaim. “If I could only get hold of some
money for her--some of the money I feel sure father must have left. But
where is it?”
Then would come the memory of that letter in the tent of Captain
Hawkesbury.
CHAPTER XIII
ACROSS THE RIVER
The Fourth of July was looked forward to by all the cadets, the plebes
no less than the upper classmen. To all it meant a day when most of the
duties were suspended, and to the “plebes” it marked the time when some
of them, for the first time, would be chosen to go on guard. Not all
the plebes would be selected for this, but Tom learned that he and Sam
would be. Harry and Chad had to wait a while for the coveted honor.
On the morning of Independence Day, following an old-time custom, the
West Point band marched through the streets of tents at reveille. After
this all duties were suspended for the day. A patriotic concert was
given in the morning, with the firing of a national salute at noon, and
then came an extra good dinner served in honor of the occasion.
Few and far between were the privileges accorded the plebes, those most
lowly of the West Pointers. But in some manner, on this Independence
Day, unusual permission was given to the lowest division of cadets to
go, with certain restrictions, where they pleased in the afternoon,
provided they were back by a certain hour.
“Say, this hits me just about right!” exclaimed Sam to Tom, as the two
came back to their tent after dinner. “What do you say that we get a
boat and go across the river to Garrison and feel as if we could call
our souls our own for a while.”
“I’m with you, if it’ll be allowed,” said Tom. “Sure it’ll be allowed!”
his chum asserted. “We’ll get Harry and Chad, hire a boat, and have a
real lark for once.”
“Go as far as you like,” laughed Tom, “only I haven’t got much cash.”
“We don’t need much. I have plenty, as it happens--just by luck
more than anything else,” he added quickly. For he was the son of a
wealthy broker, and had much spending money. However, a “plebe” has
little chance to spend money, so Tom was no worse off than any of his
companions. In fact, in spite of what is said about the democracy of
many colleges, it is only at West Point that the absolute lack of money
makes no difference at all. Money is really not given a consideration.
It is comradeship, worth, and brains that count.
Never since he had arrived had Tom, even for a moment, been made to
feel that he was looked down on because of his poverty. And he had no
doubt but that his lack of spending money was well known to all his
companions.
“We’ll have a bang-up good time!” went on Sam. “All the ice cream and
lemonade we want for once!”
Both he and Tom were very mild in their desire for pleasures, as were
Harry and Chad. The two latter eagerly welcomed the chance to get away
for a while from the daily grind, and the necessary permission having
been secured, they went to hire the boat to row across the Hudson.
As yet Tom had had little opportunity to look at the many points of
interest around West Point, with its Revolutionary associations, and
the part it played in the treason of Arnold. He made up his mind that
some day he would take the time to visit all these spots and see those
which history had made famous.
The four chums started off together, bent on having a good time.
Money rattled in the pockets of Sam, at least. As a matter of fact,
cadets are not supposed to have any cash. Things they need are charged
against their monthly salary, and should they desire a picture taken,
or wish to buy some candy, they have to submit a permit credit for the
necessary amount. Thus the real need of money is done away with. But
of course every cadet is more or less surreptitiously supplied by his
family, so that occasionally a bit of “boodle” may be purchased, that
being the cadet term for all contraband eatables.
Our friends were not the only ones who went to the river for a row that
pleasant Fourth of July. But only a few, including Tom and his three
chums, went to Garrison.
How they enjoyed the delights of doing, in a measure, as they pleased,
without having to march along as stiff as ramrods, without having some
corporal yell “more yet” in their ears, meaning thereby to straighten
up more yet, or draw in their chins more yet--how they enjoyed the
delights of this freedom may easily be imagined.
They laughed and joked, made fun of each other and their fellow cadets,
talked as familiarly as they liked of their superior officers, from the
“Supe,” as the superintendent of the Academy and the highest official
is known, down to the “Com,” or commandant of cadets.
It was all pure joy and delight--at least for a time.
Reaching Garrison the boys tied up their boat and made their way
through the streets of the town. They met several other cadets--upper
classmen, but the latter took no notice of the “plebes” nor did the
latter dare so much as look at the “superior beings.” Such has custom
decreed.
“This looks like a good place to go in and have a feed of ice cream,”
suggested Sam, as they passed a place where tables were set in the open
air under some trees and vines growing over a pergola.
“Go to it,” advised Tom. “I’m hot and dry.”
They marched in and gave their orders, noticing as they did so that
the ice cream garden joined one attached to a cafe, where something
stronger than water and grape juice was sold.
Somewhat to the surprise of Tom and his chums they saw several older
cadets in this other summer garden, sitting about tables drinking and
smoking.
“They’re hitting the pace,” murmured Harry.
“Yes, but don’t let them see us looking at them,” advised Tom. “It
won’t do, you know.”
The “plebes” knew their places well.
The four friends were enjoying their cream, and wondering what next
they could do to help pass the day, when Tom, whose back was toward the
cafe garden, heard his name spoken loudly.
“Sit down!” some one exclaimed.
Tom looked around and saw Clarence Hawkesbury at a table where sat some
upper classmen.
Clarence seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. His face was flushed and he
pointed a wavering finger at Tom.
“There he is!” he said. “There’s the fellow who did me out of my trick
at West Point. If it wasn’t for him I’d be with you now--with you, my
friends,” and he waved his hand to include the older cadets.
“Sit down!” some of them advised him. Others laughed. They were all
rather noisy and hilarious.
“I--I’ll fix him,” Clarence continued.
Young Hawkesbury strode over toward Tom’s table.
“He’s coming,” said Sam in a low voice. “Want to duck out?”
“I did not!” exclaimed Tom.
“That’s right--stick! We’re with you!” Chad said.
“I’ll fix him!” Clarence muttered.
“Oh, come on back! Sit down! Don’t be foolish!” his friends advised
him. But Clarence was hot-headed just then. Unsteadily, he strode over
to Tom’s chair. By this time Tom had arisen, for there was a foreboding
look of anger on the face of his enemy.
“There! That’s one I owe you!” Clarence exclaimed. He aimed a blow at
Tom. It only fell lightly, but Tom was not one to take a blow like that
and not reply.
The next instant his fist shot out, met the chin of Clarence squarely
with a resounding crack, and the insulting youth fell backward on the
grass, lying prone.
CHAPTER XIV
AN EXPLOSION
So suddenly had the “fracas,” as the boys referred to it afterward,
taken place, that for the moment no one, not even Tom, knew what to do
or say. They all remained, in strained attitudes of surprise, looking
at Clarence.
Tom had acted instinctively in striking out, the instinct that causes
every lad to want to hit back, once he is hit. In reality there was
little of real anger back of Tom’s blow. But it had been effective,
that was evident.
“He certainly can hit some,” one of the older cadets remarked in a low
voice.
“A good, straight blow,” murmured another.
As yet, strictly following precedent, the upper classmen had given no
indication that they so much as knew a “plebe” existed.
Clarence now sat up slowly, with a dazed look on his face. Some of his
companions could not refrain from smiling. They did not altogether
sympathize with Clarence, it seemed. It developed afterward that they
were certain wealthy cadets whose acquaintance young Hawkesbury had
made the previous summer at a fashionable resort.
“Who--who hit me?” Clarence demanded, as he rubbed his chin, on which
showed a dull red mark.
“I did,” Tom answered, not a whit afraid. He was quite willing to do
the same thing over again if he had to.
“Oh, you--you hit me--did you?” went on Clarence. His brain seemed dull
of comprehension.
“Yes,” said Tom. “But you struck me first, if you remember.”
“Huh! I did, eh? Well, I’ll hit you again, that’s what I will. I’ll
show you--”
Clarence struggled to his feet, but some of the cadets with him
gathered around him.
“Say, you don’t know enough to quit when you’ve had enough,” said one.
“He’ll only knock you down again. You’re in no condition to fight.”
“That’s right, Hawkesbury. Take it easy,” advised another. “What do you
want to mix things up for?”
“Why he’s the fellow who did me out of my appointment--my West Point
place--he did it--Tom Taylor!” and he pointed a wavering finger at our
hero.
“Well if he got the appointment it was because he won it fair and
square,” said a tall, quiet cadet. “That’s the only way one can get
into West Point. Forget it, Hawkesbury. You’ve had enough.”
“Yes, come on down to the river,” suggested another. “A little trip on
the water will do us all good. It must be getting close to grub time,
too. Come along.”
Some of them linked their arms in those of Clarence, and began to urge
him out of the summer garden. The little clash had not attracted much
attention, as it was all over so soon.
“I--I’ll fix him yet!” muttered Clarence, vindictively. But he allowed
himself to be led away by his cadet friends. Perhaps the memory of that
stinging blow on his chin was a persuader.
“Well, you came out of that all right, Tom,” observed Sam, when the
other party, rather noisy and hilarious, had gone away. All the while
the other cadets had followed the custom that has prevailed from time
immemorial, and did not bestow the slightest look of recognition on the
“plebes.” But Tom and his friends were used to that by this time, and
expected it.
“Yes, I’m sorry I had to hit him, but it was the only way,” Tom said.
“And I thought, while I was about it, I might as well make it a good
one.”
“That’s the ticket!” Chad said. “He sure is a cad, that Clarence
fellow. What’s his game, anyhow?”
“Just plain revenge and meanness, I think,” Tom answered. “His uncle is
Captain Hawkesbury, you know.”
“Better not let him know you knocked his precious nephew down, or he’ll
make it hot for you,” suggested Harry.
“Oh, he’ll probably hear of it,” said Tom, a little apprehensively,
“but I’ll be on my guard not to get caught, just the same.”
They finished their cream, and then sat for a while in the cool shade
of the summer garden, enjoying to the full the rest from drill and
other duties at the Academy.
It was a respite that would not occur again for a year, perhaps longer,
if any of them happened to be caught in some scrape that would curtail
their holiday privileges.
And, as has been explained, they would not be allowed a furlough until
they had completed two years at West Point. This time seemed so far off
that none of them dared think of it.
“Well, let’s go out around town,” suggested Harry, after a while. “We
want to take in all the sights. Not that they’re so many, but they mean
a heap to us ‘plebes.’ Come along.”
“What about a moving picture show?” asked Sam.
“Have we time?” Tom asked.
“To see part of one, anyhow,” was the opinion of Chad. So, having paid
their score, they strolled out. They saw nothing of Clarence or his
cronies, and a little later our friends were seated in a small moving
picture place, enjoying the reels of comedy and tragedy.
They still had an hour or so of liberty left after coming out of the
exhibition before they were due at the Academy, a special privilege
having been granted all save those being punished for some infraction
of the rules. These unfortunates were not allowed to leave the limits
of the military reservation.
“No need to be in a rush,” observed Chad, as He noticed Tom heading for
the place where they had left their boat.
“Well, I’d rather be back a little ahead of time than after it,” was
Tom’s comment.
“So had I,” came from Sam.
“We’ve got time for an ice cream soda, anyhow,” was Harry’s invitation
to the other boys.
“And as it will be a long while before we’ll have a chance at another,
I move you, Mr. President, that we take advantage of this generous
offer!” exclaimed Chad.
“The motion prevails,” said Tom, and they marched to a drug store.
When they reached, a little later, the place where they had left their
boat, Tom and his friends saw, just ahead of them, Clarence and the
cadets who had been with him during the unpleasantness in the summer
garden.
“Hold on--wait a minute,” advised Tom, holding back. “Let’s wait until
they get out of the way.”
“You’re not afraid of him, are you?” asked Harry.
“No, but I don’t want to get into another fight here. One of us might
go into the water, and I don’t want it to be me,” Tom said, with a
smile.
“That’s right. It wouldn’t look very well reporting back all wet,”
agreed Harry.
“They’ve got a motor boat,” remarked Sam, as they saw Clarence and the
cadets preparing to enter a fine gasoline craft.
“Yes, that belongs to Captain Hawkesbury.” Tom said. He could not keep
back a certain bitter feeling in his heart that he should be so poor
as not to be able to afford a craft of this kind, while the other lad
had one. “And, maybe, if the truth were known,” reflected Tom, “it was
bought with the money my father might have made on that railroad land
deal.”
Laughing and talking loudly, the older cadets and Clarence entered the
motor craft. The engine started with a roar, then slowed down, and
again burst into a series of explosions.
“What’s up?” asked Harry, as they were getting ready to take out their
own rowboat.
“Oh, they’re just monkeying with it,” said Tom. “It looks as though
Clarence were trying to show how much he knows, or doesn’t know, about
a motor boat.”
“Well, he’d better watch his step,” observed Harry. “The river isn’t
any too smooth to-day.”
What with the current and wind the Hudson was not as smooth as a
millpond. But Clarence and his chums, the cadets, seemed to have no
anxiety. They did not start off immediately from the dock, but ran the
boat up and down, Clarence evidently letting his friends try their
hands at steering and experimenting with the engine.
“There they go. Now let’s start,” suggested Tom. “They can’t run us
down now, and claim it was an accident.”
Slowly the rowboat made its way after the motor launch. Tom and his
chums were discussing the experiences of the day, wondering what the
morrow would bring forth, and dwelling on the good time they had
enjoyed, when suddenly there was a muffled report just ahead of them.
They all looked up, startled, and Tom cried:
“It’s an explosion; On that motor boat!”
Looking to where he pointed they saw a cloud of smoke hovering over the
craft containing Clarence Hawkesbury and the cadets.
CHAPTER XV
HARD WORK
“She’s on fire!” cried Sam.
“A goner!” echoed Harry.
“Steady all!” exclaimed Tom, in as calm a tone as he could command at
that critical time. “Steady all! And give way--hard!”
They all knew what he meant. That they were to row to the rescue of
those in the motor boat, where something had exploded--just what,
whether merely a carburetor, filled with gasoline, or the main tank,
could not be ascertained. Certain it was that Clarence and those other
cadets seemed to be in great danger. They were standing up in the bow
of the craft now, as far away from the smoke and, presumably, the
flames, as they could get, and were shouting and waving their arms.
“Row hard!” ordered Tom, and he seemed, naturally, to take command.
They had a six-oared barge, and Tom, as it happened, was at the stern,
in charge of the tiller lines when the explosion occurred. He retained
his place, and headed the craft directly for the one now enshrouded in
smoke.
“Row hard, boys!” he cried.
“That’s the idea!” said Sam, in jerky tones, as he bent his back to
the oars. Each cadet had two of the light cedar blades. They had been
rowing slowly, but they now worked up the pace as though training for a
championship.
The result was that the craft fairly shot through the water, rough as
it was. Tom and his chums, in their barge, were nearer than any other
boats to the burning one.
“Do they see us coming?” asked Sam, whose back, as were those of Harry
and Chad, was toward the motor boat.
“They seem to be too excited to notice what’s going on,” replied Tom,
as he shifted the course a trifle. “But we’ll get there in time--I
hope.”
He added the last words in a low tone, for, even as he spoke, there
sounded another dull and more muffled, explosion from the motor boat,
and a larger pall of smoke rolled up.
“They’re going to jump,” cried Sam, who, in the bow, gave a hasty look
over his shoulder.
“Wait!” yelled Tom, seeing the evident intention of Clarence. He was
poised on the gunwhale of the burning boat ready to dive, but the
cadets seemed to be trying to put out the fire.
“We’ll be with you in a minute!” Tom added.
This time his voice carried, and that he was heard was evident, as some
of the cadets waved their hands to him. One of them was seen to grasp
Clarence.
“There’s time enough yet not to jump, though maybe it would be safer,”
said Harry. “They can all swim I guess.”
Swimming was an accomplishment insisted on at West Point, as was
dancing, and it was not to be doubted that the cadets were adepts at
it. As for Clarence, Tom knew the youth was quite at home in the water.
So aside from the chance that some of them might be taken with a cramp,
or weighted down with water-soaked clothing, there was really no
particular danger in jumping overboard.
There was one chance, though, that in leaping out suddenly they might
capsize the motor boat, and if water entered the cockpit, it would
spread the burning gasoline. That is the risk of bringing water in
contact with a gasoline fire. It must never be used; sand or some
proper chemical being called for in that emergency.
“Give way--a little more!” Tom called. He was not at all selfish in
this. Had he been at the oars, and one of his companions at the tiller
lines, he would have pulled with all his strength. The proper directing
of the craft and the urging of it forward are equally important.
“Way she is!” panted Sam.
“Watch yourselves now,” Tom cautioned them, as they neared the burning
craft. “I’m going to put us around so the smoke will blow away from us.
We’ll take ’em all in our boat if they can’t put out the fire.”
“I guess we can hold ’em,” said Chad. “We’ll probably have to take ’em
anyhow, for even if they douse the blaze the boat will be stalled.”
“Steady now!” called Tom. He sent the rowboat close to the bow of the
motor craft, in such a position that the smoke would be blown away from
the rescuing party.
“What’s the trouble?” called Tom, as some of the other cadets put out
their hands to grasp the gunwhale of the rowboat.
“Explosion--carburetor,” was the short answer of one of the cadets. At
last the time-honored rule of an upper classman’s not speaking to a
cadet, outside of the Academy grounds, had been broken. But there was
good excuse for it.
“Hurry up! Get me aboard! I don’t want to be burned!” cried Clarence,
and brushing aside some of the cadets he had invited to ride in his
motor boat, he fairly jumped into the rowing craft.
“Easy there!” was Tom’s caution, as the barge rocked and swayed under
the impact.
“The cad!” murmured one of the upper classmen under his breath, as he
shot a vindictive look at Clarence. The latter had saved himself, at
any rate. He was not a very gallant host, to say the least.
“Let the boat go, fellows!” he called. “Save yourselves!”
“Can’t you put out the fire?” asked Tom.
“We used up all the chemical extinguisher there was on board,”
explained one of the cadets. “I guess she’ll have to burn.”
The gasoline was burning and flickering under and about the flooded
carburetor. At any moment it might run along the copper supply pipe, or
melt it. The tank would then explode.
“Guess we can’t do anything more, fellows,” said one of the cadets,
regretfully enough, for the motor boat was a fine craft.
“No, get aboard,” Tom said. “If we only had some sand we might put it
out.”
Clarence sat huddled up in the rowboat, a picture of varying emotions.
He did not look at Tom.
By this time, however, several other boats on the river had come up,
some of them being motor craft. One was well supplied with chemical
extinguishers, and, at considerable risk, the men aboard it began to
fight the fire in Clarence’s boat.
Tom, his chums, and the other cadets helped, but Clarence himself
remained as far away from danger as he could.
Finally the fire was put out, without great damage having been done,
though the burned boat was unable to run under its own power.
“Will you let us have the honor of putting you ashore?” asked Tom,
of the cadet who seemed to be the leader of the little party with
Clarence, “or do you--”
“Thanks very much, old man. If you’ll row us over to the Point we’ll
appreciate it. It’s about time we reported back. What do you want done
with this boat of yours, anyhow, Hawkesbury?” he asked of Clarence, a
bit sharply.
“Oh, I don’t care,” was the sullen answer.
“This gentleman says he’ll tow it to a repair dock if you say so.”
“Yes, I suppose that will be best,” Clarence said. He did not seem to
have sense enough to express his thanks. But the cadets did this for
him, apologizing for the condition of the youth.
Then, when the disabled boat was being towed up the river, Tom and his
chums rowed the upper classmen and Clarence to the West Point shore of
the Hudson.
“Thanks very much, fellows,” said the older cadets to Tom and his
chums, as they disembarked. “You did us a good turn all right, and we
shan’t forget it.”
The thanks were formal, and, as soon as expressed, the same cold and
distant manner that always marked the difference between the plebes and
the others was resumed. But Tom and his chums understood. They had made
some lasting friends that day.
Clarence Hawkesbury, however, did not stop to thank those who had saved
him from possible injury, if not death. As soon as the rowboat touched
the dock he sneaked off, too mean to utter a decent word.
“Well, what do you think of that?” asked one of the upper classmen of
another.
“I’d hate to tell you,” was the rejoinder. “This is the last time I’ll
go out with that cad!”
“Same here!”
And so the little incident passed into history.
Now began a period of hard work for Tom and his chums. Following the
Fourth of July they were assigned to guard duty for the first time.
Some of the new cadets were on duty all night, and every half-hour the
call had to be passed along, the number of the post being given, with
the words:
“All’s well!”
It was as near to war conditions as the boys were likely to approach in
some time.
Drills were now frequent, and were of various kinds; company drill,
with field guns, in which no horses were used at first, mortar battery
drill, battalion drill, and so on. The boys were tired many times
during the days and nights spent in camp, but they all realized that
it was for their good, that it was what they had come to West Point to
learn, and that it was very necessary, if they were to become soldiers.
Tom sometimes wished he could take part with the older classes in
building pontoon bridges, and in the practical military engineering,
which consisted in mounting guns temporarily, making hasty
entrenchments, temporary fortifications, barbed-wire entanglements, and
so on.
But this was only for the upper classmen, and he realized that his turn
would come soon enough. As for the “plebes” they had a daily routine
that was rather dull, and often consisted in doing work in preparation
for the evolutions and practice of the higher classes.
Dancing and swimming lessons were a part of the work, and it may be
guessed that on hot days there was no inducement needed to get the
boys into the water. It was not quite so with the dancing, however.
Even though some of them were good dancers already, it was little fun
whirling about with another plebe wearing a white handkerchief on his
arm, to indicate that he was a “lady.”
But it all had to be done, and Tom rather liked it.
CHAPTER XVI
ON FURLOUGH
Tom had frequent letters from his mother, and in turn he sent her long
accounts of his life at West Point. He emphasized the best points only,
leaving out all references to the hard work, unless he could give a
humorous turn to it, which he frequently did.
He did not mention his trouble with Clarence, and made light of the
rescue of the boys from the burning motor boat. This was in case she
might see something of it in the papers. It was reported in some of the
New York journals, but, as Tom afterward learned, was not printed in
his home town.
Indirectly Tom learned that Clarence had his motor boat repaired and
went to Florida with it.
“Well, that’ll take him out of the way here for some time,” commented
Sam, on hearing the news.
“Yes, he isn’t a fellow I take to,” added Harry.
Tom, too, was glad his enemy was, even temporarily, away from West
Point.
“I don’t want to be selfish,” Tom said, “but I hope he doesn’t come to
this Academy when I’m here.”
The time was approaching when camp would be broken, and the cadets
return to barracks. Though in a measure some looked forward to this,
as welcoming any change, Tom knew it meant harder mental work in their
studies, though he and his chums would be freed from the labor required
of them in waiting on the upper classmen. Then, too, it would be a
change, and change of any sort was welcome at this stage of a plebe’s
life.
So life in camp went on as usual with the final day approaching nearer
and nearer each twenty-four hours. The annual illumination of the
camp, which is timed for about a week before it breaks up, was a gala
event. Hundreds of Japanese lanterns were hung about the tents, which
were otherwise decorated, and there was music of different varieties
supplied by the talented cadets. The band played also, and there were
visitors galore.
Tom did not receive any company, though his chums had sisters and girl
friends and relatives who came for the occasion. But Mrs. Taylor wrote
that she was unable to come, and Tom could guess the reason why--a
lack of money.
“Hang it all!” he exclaimed disconsolately, “I wish I could hurry up
and get rich--quick.”
But few persons do that, except in stories, and they, as the little boy
said, don’t count.
“If I could only get hold of some of father’s former wealth we’d be on
Easy Street,” mused Tom.
He thought of how Captain Hawkesbury and Aaron Doolittle had so easily
profited by his father’s efforts, and a deep regret filled our hero’s
heart. Of course Tom realized that his father might have mismanaged,
and have made mistakes or unfortunate speculations, as men often do.
“But to think they profited by it, and then to have them treat us as
they do galls me,” Tom went on to himself. “If I could only find out
whether there was anything wrong--any deal between Hawkesbury and
Doolittle--I might be able to get back something out of the wreck. But
I guess they’re too foxy for me.”
Captain Hawkesbury’s evident dislike of Tom had not abated much. True
the army captain could not do a great deal to Tom, but what little he
could do he did, and it only takes a little additional, during a lad’s
first year at West Point, to make him almost hate life. The only excuse
is that it is excellent training for him.
Every time he had a chance Captain Hawkesbury made matters unpleasant
for Tom, giving him extra hours of guard duty for the slightest
infraction of rules. Be Tom’s shoes never so brilliantly polished, his
rifle never so shining, and his face never so cleanly shaved, he often
was called to account for some fancied neglect. Others, as well, were
reprimanded by different officers, but every one noticed that more than
Tom’s just share of reproof and punishment was meted out to him.
“I know what he’s doing it for, too,” Tom told his chums. “He hopes
I’ll withdraw and make a vacancy in our district so Clarence will have
a chance. But I’m going to stick!” he declared with a grim tightening
of his lips.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Sam, clapping Tom heartily on the back.
And so life went on, not altogether evenly, but as happily as could be
expected.
With the usual noise, shouting and hilarity the class that was on
furlough--the second year men--came back with the usual ceremonies;
marching up the hill from the station, and posing for their photograph
on the chapel steps. Before this, however, they had been pulled and
hauled about, to make their clothing and hats look more like the
apparel of tramps than anything else. But that was part of the game.
Soon they had gone on to barracks, where they donned their natty
uniforms, and once again they took up life where they had left off. Two
more years of it and they would graduate.
Tom looked at them longingly. Would he ever reach that point? It seemed
very far off.
Finally came the day for breaking camp. The tents, the ropes of which
had been previously loosed, fell as one at the tap of the drum, and
a little later, piled in wagons, were being carted away with the
paraphernalia. Then came the marching of the cadets back to barracks,
and Tom and Sam went to the room that had been assigned to them, Harry
and Chad being quartered near.
The room of Tom and his chum was plainly, even severely, furnished.
It was as unlike the average college student’s room as is possible to
imagine. Not a sofa cushion was allowed, nothing but hard-bottomed
chairs, and even the clock on the mantel, where must also be kept the
official blue book of regulations, must not cost above a certain sum.
There were no decorations, no pictures--nothing but bare, cheerless
walls. It was military, and that was the best that could be said of it.
Tom and Sam had to take turns in keeping the room in order, each being
held responsible on alternate weeks. They must do their sweeping, their
dusting and the carrying of water. The Biblical injunction to hew wood
did not apply in their case.
There were two inspections to be provided for, one in the morning and
one in the evening, and everything in the room, needless to say, must
be spick and span in anticipation of this. There was a difference
between Sunday and week-day inspections.
On the latter the cadets might be absent at drill or recitations
when their rooms were looked at. In this case they did not see the
inspector. But if they happened to be in when he made his round they
could be in fatigue uniform, or if the inspection did not take place
until after eleven o’clock in the morning, it was permitted to wear a
dressing gown.
But the Sunday inspections are the critical ones. The cadets have to
be in their rooms then, attired in their best dress coats and gloves
without a speck. The slightest article out of place, or the least
deviation from the regulations, causes the tactical officer to make an
adverse report or “skin.” The cadet captain is also present at these
Sunday inspections.
There was a slight change in the routine after the return to barracks.
Recitations began early in September, and the time of rising was put
back a half hour, being at six o’clock. Breakfast was a half hour
later, guard mounting at seven-ten and recitations, after the call to
quarters, began at eight o’clock.
There were four recitation periods up to nearly one o’clock and the
classes were so divided that while one section recited another studied.
Tom found it rather strange at first, to be under absolutely no set
rules or requirements in regard to study. The cadets were allowed to
fix their own standards in this respect. All that was required of them
was that they be perfect in recitation.
Military discipline, of course, was insisted on. The instructors were
all West Point graduates, the strictest of the strict, and not only
must the cadets be perfect in their lessons, but in their manner,
deportment and dress. Woe betide he whose shoes were not polished to
just the proper degree of brilliancy, or who came in with a speck on
his otherwise immaculate collar.
But Tom and his chums managed to worry through, somehow or other. They
were not the most brilliant students, neither were they the lowest. In
fact, they were a good average, and they were fairly well satisfied
with themselves.
The work was hard--no one denied that. On the other hand the results
were in keeping. It was worth all it cost--Tom felt sure of that.
Now and then the boys would be caught in some infraction of the
rules--such as having a light in their rooms at forbidden hours, even
though they carefully darkened the windows. They were given extra tours
of duty on Saturday afternoons for such things, when otherwise they
might have been free to enjoy themselves.
In January would come the examinations for those who failed to qualify
in class to a certain percentage. Tom and Chad were among the lucky
ones who escaped the nerve-racking ordeal of a strict examination
before the official board, but Sam and Harry were obliged to submit.
However, they were successful, and breathed easier.
Some of the plebes were dropped, not coming up to the standard in the
January tests, and were obliged to withdraw, giving their friends and
relatives whatever excuse they thought best suited to the occasion.
“Well, we’re here yet!” exclaimed Tom to his chums when it was all over.
“All here, what there is left of us?” sighed Sam, who had come pretty
close to failure in one study.
The examination days brought with them some spare time which the cadets
enjoyed in outdoor sports.
And so, in the way already described, Tom passed two years at West
Point. He had not seen his mother in all that time, though he heard
from her often. You may judge, then, of his delight when, having
successfully passed his second year, he was allowed a furlough of two
months to go back home.
“And I want to see you very much, Tom,” Mrs. Taylor wrote. “I have
something important to tell you.”
“I wonder what it can be?” Tom mused, as he prepared to leave the
Academy for a short time.
CHAPTER XVII
A QUARREL
“Oh, Tom! How fine you look! How tall and straight you are! What
a--why, what a _man_ you have become!”
Thus our hero’s mother greeted him as she met him at the Chester
station on the occasion of Tom’s first home-coming.
“Tom, you are so--so big!”
Her eyes were shining, as only a mother’s eyes can shine, while she
held out her hands to welcome her son.
“Well, Mother,” Tom said, as he kissed her, “West Point makes a
specialty of helping boys grow up. I hope they didn’t make any mistake
in my case.”
“I’m sure they didn’t!” she said. “You certainly are taller and
straighter.”
“It’s a pity if I shouldn’t be, mother, with all the bracing-back I’ve
been doing in the last two years. For a time I thought I wouldn’t have
anything but shoulders, but I’m getting used to it now. How are you,
and what’s the news?”
“As if I could tell you all the news of two years in a moment!” she
objected.
“Well, tell me about yourself. Are you getting along all right?”
As he asked this question Tom looked searchingly at his mother. He
saw that she was thinner than she had been when he went away, and she
looked paler--as though she had spent many long and weary hours bending
over her sewing. And, had Tom but known it, this was the fact.
In a way he bitterly reproached himself for having gone to West Point,
leaving her to fight the battle of life alone, and when he hinted at
this, and frankly offered to resign and seek some employment that would
bring in a large immediate return, she said:
“No, Tom. You must keep on as you have started. This is to be your
life-work. You will have only one chance, and you must take advantage
of it. We can stand a little privation now for the sake of what will
come afterward.”
“But I don’t want you to stand privation, Mother. It isn’t fair that I
should have it easy while you work so hard.”
“Are you having it easy, Tom?”
She looked at him closely as she asked this.
“Well, the fellows don’t call it easy,” he admitted.
“I understand,” she said smiling. “Now don’t worry about me. I am
making enough to live on. You are paying your own way, and a little
more, though I wish I could send you some money occasionally.”
“I couldn’t use it!” he said, with a laugh. “I haven’t exhausted my
Academy credit yet.”
“Well, it won’t be very much longer,” she went on with a sigh. “The
next two years will go past quickly, and then----”
“Then I’ll take care of you, Mother!” Tom exclaimed. “Once I graduate,
I’ll be earning enough to make life easier for you. There won’t be a
needle or a spool of thread in the house.”
“What about mending for you?” she asked, smiling.
“Oh, I’m a pretty fair sewer myself,” he laughed. “But, Mother,” he
asked, as they were on their way to the little cottage, “what was it
you mentioned in your letter, about something important to tell me?”
Tom looked searchingly at his mother as they walked up the main street
of the town. Nothing had changed much, Tom thought, during his two
years’ absence. Here and there a new front had been put on to some
store, and there were two new moving picture places. But otherwise
Chester was about the same.
“What is it, Mother?” Tom asked again, as he noted that she hesitated
about answering. “Is it the old problem--money--father’s affairs?”
“Yes, Tom, in a way. You know how the valuable land, now used as an
approach to the railroad bridge, passed away from us. I have always
thought that there was something wrong about that. I had an idea that
it was, in some way, secured against anything that could happen.”
“What do you mean by ‘secured’?”
“I mean I understood your father to say, shortly before he died so
suddenly, that if anything happened to him, that land would yield
enough of an income for you and me to live on until you were old enough
to look after yourself, and me, too. He always had an idea that it
would be very valuable, though whether or not he had an intimation that
the railroad was coming through I can not say.”
“You say he told you the land was secured?” asked Tom.
“That was the word he used--yes.”
“He didn’t say how, did he?”
“Not exactly, but I understood he had put it in trust--deeded it, in
some way, so that it would eventually come to us--to you and to me.”
“Did he ever show you any papers in that connection?”
“No. He was going to, and we had planned to go over the matter
together, when he fell ill, and--”
Her voice choked, and she could not proceed for a moment.
Tom’s eyes filled with tears as he led his mother into the house.
They sat down together, and presently Mrs. Taylor regained control of
herself, so that she could go on.
“Why I said anything in my letter,” she resumed, “was because of
something I found when going over some old papers of your father’s. It
was a few days ago, and among some useless documents I found a rough
draft of a trust deed he had drawn up regarding the railroad property,
as I call it.”
“To whom was the deed made out?” Tom asked.
“To Captain Hawkesbury and Mr. Doolittle.”
“What!” cried Tom, startled by his mother’s answer. “To those--”
“Now don’t be rash, son,” she advised him. “The land was not actually
deeded to these two men. It was only to go to them in trust for you and
me. Your father’s idea was, as I understand it, that Captain Hawkesbury
and Mr. Doolittle could make a better bargain with the railroad people
than we could. So he made this deed in trust.”
“And is this how those two--those two men--” Tom controlled his words
by an effort--“is this how they got the property away from us--through
that deed of trust?”
“I don’t know, Tom,” said Mrs. Taylor simply. “All I have to go by
is the rough draft of the deed of trust. Whether your father carried
out his idea as outlined in that, I cannot say. The plan was probably
a good one, but it failed as far as we are concerned. I mean we have
derived no benefit from the land.”
“No, but we will, Mother!” Tom exclaimed, vigorously.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Taylor was startled.
“I mean I am going to see Mr. Doolittle, and ask him about this deed
of trust. If he and Captain Hawkesbury held the land in that way they
should turn over to us the money they got from the railroad company. It
must be a large sum. Why, it’s just as if they were the guardians of
the land for our benefit.”
“Yes, Tom, that is if your father carried out his idea. But I have no
means of knowing whether he did or not. I have searched all through his
papers, but I found nothing more on the subject. I don’t see what we
can do, but I thought I had better tell you of it.”
“I am very glad you did, Mother,” Tom said, quietly.
“I only discovered the draft a few days before I wrote to you,” Tom’s
mother said. “But it all seems so useless.”
“No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed, earnestly. “I’m going to do something.”
“Nothing rash, Tom, I hope!” she said, apprehensively.
“No, not exactly that. But I’m going to see Mr. Doolittle, and ask him
a thing or two.”
Mrs. Taylor was surprised at the change in her son. He was very much
more of a man than when he left two years before. He seemed very
capable.
This, of course, was due to the West Point training. It tends to make a
lad stand on his own feet, for the Academy trains him with the idea of
some day having him handle large bodies of men; and to rule over others
one must first learn to govern himself.
“Let me see that paper, Mother,” Tom said, when they had talked the
matter over a little longer.
She gave it to him, and he studied it earnestly. It was, as she had
said, a copy, or draft, of a deed of trust, for the valuable land on
which one end of the railroad bridge stood.
“I’ll see Doolittle about this,” Tom decided.
However, he did not carry out his intention that day. He was tired
with his trip, and he wanted to be in the best condition when he met
the man who he had reason to suspect was a clever schemer, if not a
downright swindler.
Tom spent some time in going about town, renewing acquaintance with
his former school chums. He had much to tell them of his life at West
Point, and he, in turn, listened to much of interest.
Then, having ascertained from a local lawyer a general idea of how
deeds of trust were executed and carried out, Tom called on Mr.
Doolittle.
Aaron Doolittle was a local character. In a way he was a sort of
Shylock, but he would not have felt complimented had any one called him
that, though his knowledge of Shakespeare was limited. Mr. Doolittle
had money, and he loaned it out on the best of security at high rates
of interest.
Tom found him in his office over the local bank, in which, it was
rumored, Mr. Doolittle held a large interest.
“Well, what do you want?” fairly snarled the financier of Tom, as the
latter entered. “I haven’t any money to lend, if that’s what you’ve
come for.”
“Money to lend?” repeated Tom, somewhat surprised.
“Yes. That’s what I said! If you came here thinking to get enough to
keep on with that silly soldier life you’ve been leading you can march
right out again, the way you came in. You’ll get no money from me!”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that,” Tom said, more coolly than he felt.
“Hey? What do you mean?” Mr. Doolittle seemed alarmed.
“I’ll tell you that later,” Tom said significantly, as he felt in his
pocket to see if he had the draft of the deed safe. “But just now
I’ll say I didn’t come to borrow any money.” Tom emphasized the word
“borrow.”
“Another thing,” he went on. “I don’t need money to continue at West
Point. I am being paid for staying there.”
“Paid! Huh! What’s this country coming to, anyhow, when it squanders
money on such foolishness?” snorted the crabbed old man.
Tom did not answer that question. It was too big. What he did say was:
“Mr. Doolittle, I have called on you in reference to a deed of trust my
father drew shortly before his death, naming you and Captain Hawkesbury
as trustees of a certain piece of land--land where the railroad bridge
now stands. That land has been sold, and I think the money for it
should come to my mother and to me. I have here--”
That was as far as Tom got just then. Mr. Doolittle fairly leaped from
his chair, his face blazing with wrath.
“You--you--” he stammered out. Words failed him for a moment.
“Get out of my office!” he shouted.
“Not until you have answered my question,” said Tom, coolly.
“How dare you ask me any questions?”
“How dare I? Why, I think I have a very good right, since you were in
charge of some of my father’s property.”
“Your father’s property! He left none! All he did own was swallowed up
in debts. He owes me money now, if the truth were known.”
“I don’t believe that,” Tom said, quietly.
“You don’t believe it? Well, I’ll prove it to you!” fairly shouted the
angry man. “That deed of trust! Bah! There never was any! He deeded
that property outright to Captain Hawkesbury and me for what he owed
us, and it wasn’t enough. Now you get out of my office! I won’t be
insulted by you!”
Tom thought he was the one being insulted, and his looks showed it.
“Now listen to me----” he began, as calmly as he could.
“I won’t listen,” interrupted the angry man. “I want you to understand
that--but what is the use of talking to such a boy as you. I--I----”
“I think you had better listen, Mr. Doolittle. I want to----”
“Get out!” stormed Mr. Doolittle. “Don’t let me hear another word from
you! As for that deed of trust--”
He made a grab for the paper Tom held, but our hero stepped back, a
surprised look on his face.
CHAPTER XVIII
BACK AT WEST POINT
“Just a moment, Mr. Doolittle,” said our hero, coolly. “Did you want
to look at this paper?” and he held the deed of trust, or, rather, the
rough draft of it, up so the crabbed old money lender could fix his
eyes on it.
“No, I don’t want to look at it,” was the snarling answer.
“Oh, excuse me. I thought you did,” Tom went on. He realized that he
had just saved the document from possible destruction, for the old man
had certainly made a grab for the paper, and, had he secured it he
might have held it to a burning gas-jet near his desk, where he had
been melting some sealing wax when Tom came in.
“No, I don’t want to see it,” Mr. Doolittle went on. “It isn’t any
good. Your father may have had an idea of putting that land in trust,
but he didn’t do it, and you can’t prove that he did.”
This, Tom realized, was his weak point. He had absolutely no proof
that the land was only deeded in trust to Captain Hawkesbury and Mr.
Doolittle. That it was actually deeded to them was brought out at Mr.
Taylor’s death, for the deed had been put on record, and they had
claimed the land and sold it to the railroad company. They claimed
that Mr. Taylor had given them the land in payment for money they had
advanced to him.
“That paper isn’t any good,” went on the old money-lender. “It might
just as well be thrown away. It has no value.”
It was strange then, Tom thought, that Mr. Doolittle should make such
an effort to secure it. But he said nothing about that then. Mr.
Doolittle appeared to have another sudden wave of anger.
“I haven’t any time to waste with you!” he stormed. “You needn’t come
here bothering me. Now you get out and don’t let me see any more of
you. If you think that paper’s any good why don’t you take it to some
lawyer? There’s plenty of ’em trying to make a living at law,” and he
chuckled mirthlessly.
Tom folded the document and put it back in his pocket. He realized that
it would be of no use to show the paper to a lawyer. What would be
the effect of an unexecuted deed of trust that was not even signed?
Tom knew the only thing that would avail him would be the completed
document itself, and that would have no effect unless it was dated
after the deed that had been put on file--that deed which gave the
property to the two men who had sold it.
Much disappointed, Tom went out. He had tried and failed. Well, matters
could go on as they were. There was still West Point, and Tom had yet
to make an assault on the final heights on top of which lay the coveted
diploma. Once he had secured that, he would see what could be done.
Mrs. Taylor did not show much disappointment, however much she may have
felt, and there must have been some.
“Never mind, Tom,” she said, when he reported to her the result of his
call on Mr. Doolittle. “You tried, and that was the best thing to do.
We aren’t any worse off than we were. We’ll get along somehow,” she
said bravely.
“Yes, but, Mother, I can’t bear to have you work so hard!”
“Work is the greatest blessing in this world, Tom,” she said with one
of her fine smiles. She did not add that it helped her to forget her
great loss. But perhaps Tom understood.
Putting aside the memory of the unpleasant interview with Mr.
Doolittle, Tom tried to enjoy his furlough. He went out with many of
his former friends, and made some new ones. He was in great demand at
several little dances gotten up by the High School Alumnae, and he
showed some of the girls new steps that he had learned from his cadet
chums.
“Say, Tom,” remarked Walter Penfield, one day, “I’ll be glad when you
go back to the Academy.”
“Why?” asked Tom, in surprise.
“Because the girls talk about nothing but you and your dances. You
don’t give another fellow a show!”
“Oh, if that’s all,” said Tom, “come in and I’ll teach you a few new
wrinkles.”
“Good!” cried Walter. “You may stay as long as you like.”
But Tom’s time was strictly limited and he had to return to West Point
the last of August. As was the custom, he and his chums marched up
the hill, torn and disheveled as to hats and garments, and had their
photographs taken. Then they took up the life where they had left off,
some two months before.
Tom had been made a cadet officer, and that, with the advance in class,
gave him more privileges than he had had formerly. There was harder
work to do, of course, for the studies were advanced. He had lessons in
astronomy, and had to spend long night hours in the observatory taking
observations of the stars. He became a fine mathematician, and he
fairly dreamed figures.
Building pontoon bridges, working with big guns and mortars, planning
entrenchments, taking part in sham battles, riding in the seemingly
reckless manner that characterizes West Pointers--these largely made up
Tom’s life in the second stage of his stay at the Military Academy.
Tom had rather hoped that Captain Hawkesbury would not be at West Point
after the furlough, but this was a vain wish, for the old army captain,
grimmer and meaner than before, if that were possible, was “right on
the job,” as Sam expressed it.
Of course, Tom again fell easily into the life with his former
chums, and he made some new acquaintances that were pleasant. But
overshadowing everything was a suspicion, deep back in Tom’s brain,
that all was not right in regard to the railroad land. That deed of
trust could not be forgotten, though how he was to turn it to advantage
Tom could not figure out.
He knew it would be worse than useless to appeal to Captain Hawkesbury.
That official cordially disliked him, Tom was sure, and he did not
want to have a scene at West Point. So he said nothing, but he resolved
to keep his eyes open.
Of Clarence Hawkesbury, Tom saw little. If the rich youth made another
effort to enter West Point, Tom was not aware of it. He did see
Clarence once or twice, the latter coming to some affairs given by the
upper classmen. But Clarence took no notice of Tom.
Not that this worried our hero any. He was only too glad not to come in
contact with the bully, for he wanted no more scenes like the one that
had preceded the motor boat accident.
Tom wished he had a chance to ascertain what went on between Captain
Hawkesbury and Mr. Doolittle. He wondered if the two corresponded, and
whether the old army officer had been informed of Tom’s visit to the
money-lender. But of course there was no way of finding this out. Tom
could not play the spy in that fashion, and he seldom had a chance,
now, to visit the captain’s quarters.
Occasionally he was sent there, in the course of his duties, or to
receive some reprimand for a real or fancied breach of the rules. But
Captain Hawkesbury left no more papers or letters lying about. Perhaps
he was aware that Tom was eager to get some sort of evidence.
Among the pleasures now allowed Tom and his chums since they had
graduated into a higher class was that of riding out on the public
roads on Wednesdays and Saturdays. They had all become expert horsemen,
and took delight in their steeds.
The pleasures of riding by themselves on the public road were
rather limited by the injunction that no one must dismount unless
it was necessary, and they could not go off the main roads. But, of
course, the construction placed on the word “necessary” in regard to
dismounting, was capable of extended application. Tom and his chums
managed to have good times.
Occasionally they met Captain Hawkesbury on these rides. He only
saluted them stiffly, and passed on, hardly giving Tom a glance.
“I suppose he thinks Clarence ought to be in my place,” Tom said to Sam.
“Let him take it out in supposing then,” was the rejoinder. “That can’t
hurt you.”
“No, but if he thinks we get off the horses now and then for--well, say
a little rest, he’d be the first one to report it.”
“That’s right,” said Harry. “Say, we’ll have to watch him. And if we
ever think he’s on to our game we’ll get ahead of him by reporting
ourselves first.”
“Sure!” agreed Tom.
There was a book kept in the guardhouse and in this volume the cadets
who were allowed the riding privileges were required to register their
departure and arrival. If the cadets chose they could also note, or
report, any of their own infractions of the rules against dismounting
without sufficient cause.
CHAPTER XIX
UNHORSED
“Letter for you, Tom,” announced Sam one day, as his chum came in.
“From home, I guess,” for Tom had told his chums the name of his home
town, and it was plainly to be observed in the postmark.
“That’s good!” Tom said, as he took the envelope. “Yes, it’s from
mother,” he added, as he recognized the dear, familiar handwriting--a
handwriting cramped of late, Tom thought, by too much sewing.
“I wonder if I’ll ever be able to help her, and relieve her of that
hateful work,” he thought, as he tore the covering off the epistle. “It
sure is a long time to wait--two years more, and then four more before
I’ll really be earning anything worth while. Oh, why can’t I get hold
of that railroad land?”
Tom’s self-asked question was accented in his mind a moment later by
what he read in his mother’s letter.
“I wonder if it is possible, Tom, for you to send me a little money?
I know you spoke of being paid a salary, and that it was held to
accumulate for you. You said you would not need it all, and as I am a
little pressed for cash just now, and as the sewing is falling off a
little, I thought perhaps the authorities would give you some of what
is rightfully yours.”
“Great Scott!” cried Tom, aloud, before he thought of what he was
saying.
“No bad news, I hope, old man! is there?” asked Sam.
“No--er--that is not exactly--no,” Tom stammered. “It’s just a little
matter. I dare say it will be all right.”
Though he tried to speak calmly, Tom’s mind was in a tumult. He hardly
knew what to do, and for a moment he was tempted to lay the whole
matter before Sam; but a natural delicacy stopped him.
Sam was wealthy, Tom knew, and he felt that as soon as money was
mentioned his chum would offer to get him as much as was needed.
“I’ll try to get what is my own first,” Tom decided. “It isn’t much,
but it will help mother out. Hang it all! Why can’t I earn money? Or
why can’t I get what I believe is rightfully ours. I’m going to do
something!”
Just what he was going to do Tom did not know. He could not decide so
suddenly. Slowly he folded the letter from his mother, and placed it in
his pocket. Sam watched his chum, covertly, and wished he could aid him.
“I’m pretty sure that was bad news Tom got,” reflected Sam, when his
chum had gone out. “And it must have been about money, for if it was a
death, or anything like that, he’d have been willing enough to tell. I
wish he would tell me. I’d lend him all he needs. But he’s too proud to
ask, and I can’t offer, for that might hurt his feelings. Well, I’ll
wait a bit and see what turns up.”
Matters were rapidly shaping themselves for the upturn, but neither Tom
nor Sam knew this.
Our hero walked out to think alone for a time. He wondered if the plan
his mother suggested were feasible. He resolved to find out, and began
making some judicious inquiries.
The answers Tom received told him that it would be better not to ask
for this money just at present for certain reasons that need not be
detailed.
“One thing I am going to do though, is to tackle old Hawkesbury!” Tom
decided. “It’s time I did, and I wish I had done so as soon as I came
back with that copy of the trust deed. Doolittle must have written and
told him what I said, and maybe the captain is wondering why I haven’t
been to him before. Probably he’s all primed and ready for me, and
will unlimber with all his guns, but I can’t help that. I’ve got to do
something for my mother. I can’t have her suffer!”
Tom had a bitter feeling in his heart against the old army officer,
but he endeavored to keep it down, and remain cool as he planned the
interview.
He saw Captain Hawkesbury that afternoon, having received permission
from his immediate superior to make the visit.
“Come in!” called the captain sharply as Tom knocked.
Tom entered, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Buttoned
under his closely-fitting coat was the rough draft of the trust deed.
Tom expected to use it.
“Well, what do you want?” was the not very pleasant greeting of Captain
Hawkesbury.
“A few moments’ conversation with you, sir,” Tom answered. The captain
did not ask him to sit down, but remained seated at his own desk,
looking at Tom with sharp eyes, in which our hero fancied he could
detect a gleam of hate.
“I haven’t much time,” said the military man. “Is it something in
regard to your duties here?”
“No, it is something personal.”
“I have nothing to do with you, personally!” was the frigid answer.
“There was a time when you were glad to have something to do with us,”
went on Tom, boldly. “When father--”
“That’s enough!” exclaimed Captain Hawkesbury sharply. “You need not
bring up the past. I was very much disappointed in your father. He made
a failure, and I and some of his friends were hard put to make matters
come out right for the estate.”
“I don’t believe that!” cried Tom, stung by the cruel words.
“What! Do you mean to tell me that I am not speaking the truth?”
Captain Hawkesbury almost leaped from his chair.
“I don’t mean anything of the sort,” went on Tom, resolved to stake
everything now. “I think you and Mr. Doolittle were mistaken about my
father, and that there is a misunderstanding somewhere. Perhaps this
will help to clear it up,” and Tom suddenly produced the draft of the
deed. Caution for the moment left him, and he tossed the document on
the desk in front of the angry captain.
“Eh! What’s this? What’s this?” exclaimed the officer, putting on his
glasses and taking up the paper. “What is this to me?”
“It is a copy of a deed of trust, drawn by my father, naming you
and Mr. Doolittle as trustees of the property that was bought by the
railroad for their bridge approach,” Tom said, speaking rapidly. “It is
only a copy, of course, and was never executed. What I want to know is
whether any such paper was ever legally drawn up, and whether or not my
mother and I can get any money from that land. We need it--she needs
it--very much.”
Tom was pleading now. He had put his pride behind him.
“Certainly not! Certainly not!” cried Captain Hawkesbury, fairly
spluttering. “How dare you come to me with such a question? That land
Mr. Doolittle and I took for some of the money your father owed us. It
barely sufficed. There was not a dollar left. Something for you? Indeed
not! If I had what was right you would be paying me now. But I will let
that pass. I am surprised at your impudence in coming to me with such a
suggestion.
“This document is worthless--utterly worthless. I never saw it before,
and certainly there is none like it on file. It is of no value!”
Saying which Captain Hawkesbury tore the copy of the trust deed into
several pieces, and threw them into the waste-paper basket.
“Stop!” cried Tom. “That paper is mine!”
He sprang forward, but was too late.
“What, would you raise your hand to me?” fairly shouted the captain.
“This is insubordination, sir! I could order you under arrest for that!”
Tom drew back. He could not afford to have his career at West Point
spoiled.
“But that paper! It was mine. You had no right to destroy it!” he said.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” exclaimed the old army officer
with a frown. “Leave my room this instant. I destroyed that paper
because it had my name on it and I will not have you going around
showing it to every one and repeating a silly, baseless story. I had
a right to destroy it as one of the men involved in your father’s
affairs. Now go!”
He pointed to the door.
Tom hesitated. He might create a scene, raise a disturbance and carry
the matter to the superintendent. Tom did not think the part Captain
Hawkesbury had played in his father’s estate gave him a right to thus
summarily destroy any document he pleased.
But Tom reflected quickly. Captain Hawkesbury, who had a certain power,
might make matters appear so that Tom would seem to be in the wrong.
Tom might even be dismissed. He could not afford to suffer that.
“And, after all,” Tom reflected, “the paper isn’t of any value. It
isn’t as if it were the real deed. I guess I’d better let the matter
drop. But he is an insufferable cad! I--I’d like to--fight him!”
Tom felt a wild rage in his heart, which was natural enough under the
circumstances. He swallowed a lump in his throat, looked unfalteringly
into the eyes of the old army officer, and, saluting stiffly, turned
and went out.
Tom fancied Captain Hawkesbury breathed a sigh of relief. Was it fancy?
Tom had staked his little all, and he had, apparently, lost. What would
be the next move?
Tom’s immediate need was to get money for his mother, and this problem
was unexpectedly solved for him. His chum, Sam, had guessed right, and,
making bold, urged Tom to tell the truth.
“Look here old man,” he said, bruskly but very kindly, “won’t you let
me help you out? I think I’ve guessed.”
Then Tom told the story, with the result that Sam’s father advanced
enough on some rather poor securities Tom’s mother held to enable the
widow to make ends meet. The securities could not be negotiated save by
some one in Mr. Leland’s line of business, but he said he was really
running no financial risk. So that matter was settled for the time
being.
As to the trust deed, Tom had given up hope about that.
The work at West Point went on, Tom progressing rapidly. He enjoyed,
most of all, the horsemanship, at which he was among the most expert.
That being so, it was difficult to account for what occurred one day.
The battalion to which Tom was attached was engaged in a sham battle,
and there was some wild riding. Tom held his own, however, until toward
the close. He was riding alone when suddenly Captain Hawkesbury, on a
mettlesome steed, dashed out from the line of officers. At first it
seemed as though he had come out to speak to Tom, and the latter drew
rein.
“Go on! Go on!” shouted the captain. “Don’t stop in my way!”
Tom was confused. His horse became a little unmanageable, and as
Captain Hawkesbury came on at top speed there was a collision between
them. Tom was unhorsed and fell heavily. He felt a sharp pain in his
head, his eyes saw nothing but blackness, and then he lay unconscious,
dimly hearing, as the fast sound, the gallop of horses’ hoofs as his
companions rode toward him.
CHAPTER XX
IN THE HOSPITAL
Tom seemed to himself to come back from some remote place with a
wrench that shook his whole body. As he said afterward it was like
falling through some vast space, bringing up with a jerk. He seemed to
be floating in space one minute, and the next he awoke with a start
to find himself in bed. A glance around told him it was the hospital
attached to the Academy. And, thus recognizing it, Tom was spared the
necessity of asking:
“Where am I?”
What he did ask when he saw an orderly coming toward him was:
“What happened? Am I badly hurt?”
“Nothing much to speak of, unless something develops internally later,
so the doctor says. You’re to keep quiet, Mr. Taylor,” the man went on.
“The doctor will be here pretty soon. He left word he was to be called
as soon as you became conscious.”
“Well, I’m conscious all right,” Tom said, trying to smile. His head
had been aching badly, but the pain had somewhat stopped now. Gingerly
he moved an arm, a leg, one of his hands and then the other. All his
limbs seemed to be still attached to him, but he was sore and stiff,
and ached in every joint and muscle.
“Well, how goes it, Mr. Taylor?” asked the doctor, as he came and stood
smiling beside Tom’s bed.
“Pretty well, doctor.”
“That’s good. We’ll have you around again soon.”
“Just what happened?” asked Tom. He had a memory of Captain
Hawkesbury’s horse crashing into him, and Tom thought he himself had
been in danger of being crushed under the animal. But evidently that
had not happened.
“There was a collision between you and Captain Hawkesbury,” went on the
physician. “Both your mounts seemed to get a little beyond you, and
that was strange, for the captain boasts of being able to manage any
kind of horse.
“That isn’t saying you mismanaged yours, though,” the medical man went
on. “I was looking at the drill, and I want to say you got out of what
looked as if it was going to be a bad accident--you got out of it very
nicely. You had a hard fall, and received a glancing blow on the head
from one of the horse’s feet. But aside from the shock and the bruises
you’re all right and I think you’ll be out in about a week.”
“A week!” gasped Tom.
“Oh, that isn’t long. And most of you gentlemen would accept a week
here very gladly.”
Tom smiled.
He realized that being in the hospital relieved him from the dull
routine--that he need not jump up at reveille and could take it easy in
many ways.
Still, though there were certain advantages about being in the hospital
while in no great danger, there were disadvantages in Tom’s case. He
wanted to be actively doing something to help his mother, or at least
to continue an investigation into the matter of the trust deed. He had
been thinking hard on that subject and, only that day he had come to a
new conclusion in the matter. He had decided to appeal to a well-known
lawyer, the father of one of his cadet friends. Tom had made up his
mind to lay the whole matter before Mr. Blasdell, state that he was
unable to pay a fee, but offering, in case any money could be recovered
from the captain and Mr. Doolittle, to share it with the attorney. Tom
felt sure Mr. Blasdell would take the case on that basis, as young
Blasdell, who was in Tom’s class, said his father’s firm often did that.
“But here I am, on my back, and unable to do anything,” thought Tom,
bitterly. “It’s just my luck!”
But, while he did not know it, luck was, even then, preparing a big and
pleasant surprise for Tom Taylor.
“Now you must take it easy and not fret,” went on the doctor. “You were
very fortunate to get out of it as you did, very fortunate. I expected
to find a couple of broken bones at least, but you young chaps have a
happy faculty of falling easy. Feel sleepy?”
“A little,” Tom admitted.
“I thought you would. Well, go to sleep. Ring if you want anything.
Rest will do you more good than medicine.”
Tom closed his eyes and tried to think. The scene of the accident was
coming more clearly to him now. He could see the captain riding toward
him--he could hear the shouts--the pounding of the horses’ hoofs--then
he opened his eyes with a start. It was as though he felt the shock of
the collision over again.
“Guess I must be getting a case of nerves,” Tom said to himself,
grimly. “That won’t do!”
He tried to turn in bed, but such pains shot through his whole frame
that he gave it up, and lay as he was. Finally, due either to the
reaction, or to some opiate the doctor had given him, he fell into a
heavy slumber.
Tom felt much better when he awakened. The orderly was near him, and
asked:
“Do you want anything, Mr. Taylor?”
“Something cool to drink?”
“Yes, sir. The doctor said you might have a bit of iced lemonade, and
some fruit--oranges, perhaps?”
“I’ll take lemonade. It’s night, isn’t it?”
“Lights have just been turned on; yes, sir. Some of your friends were
in to see you, but the doctor thought it best not to awaken you.”
“Who were they?”
“Mr. Leland, Mr. Houston and Mr. Wilson,” the orderly replied,
consulting a list he had evidently prepared.
Tom wondered whether Captain Hawkesbury would call and inquire after
him, but he did not like to ask. After all, he did not much care. There
was no love lost between them, and there was no use in pretending.
Still, in all decency the captain might have called.
Tom was not as well next day as he had hoped to be, nor did he progress
as the doctor evidently expected. The medical man frowned a little,
thinking perhaps his patient did not see this sign. But if Tom saw he
did not much care. He was too ill.
For the next two days Tom was on the border line between progressing
favorably and going back. Then came the turn in his favor. Tom’s fever
left him and he was cool, though weak. He began to take an interest in
matters, and was allowed to see his chums who called on him. They had
called every day, of course, but up to this time, they had not been
admitted to the sickroom.
As for Captain Hawkesbury, he probably learned of Tom’s condition, but
it was not because he inquired.
“It’s a mean thing to think, much less to say,” mused Tom, as he lay in
bed staring up at the ceiling, “but it looks to me as though Captain
Hawkesbury is glad I’m laid up. And I think he’d be glad if I was so
knocked out that I’d have to withdraw from the Academy. Yes, I’ll go
farther and say I think he deliberately rode into me so I would get
disabled. I don’t claim he actually wanted to injure me seriously, but
he may have thought a little knocking about would take the starch out
of me, and cause me to resign. But I’ll not!”
Tom looked out of the window musingly.
“I’m going to stick!” he told himself, firmly, “and I’m going after
Captain Hawkesbury and Mr. Doolittle harder than ever. That’s what I’m
going to do!”
Tom clenched his fists under the bedclothes--that is he tried to, but
gave it up with a wince of pain, for one of his arms had been badly
wrenched.
“Well, how are you feeling, old man?” asked Sam, a little later, as he
came in to see his chum.
“Oh, so-so.”
“That’s good. We all miss you.”
“Glad to hear you say so. I’ll be around in another week, I’m sure.”
“Oh, don’t be in a hurry to get well,” said Sam with a grin. “If I had
a chance in here I’d make it last as long as possible.”
Sam looked at the comfortable bed, in the spotlessly spick and span
room, glanced at a tray of delicacies at Tom’s side, thought of his own
strenuous life, and grinned again.
“I sure would draw it out as long as possible,” he went on. “No beastly
reveille to wake you up mornings.”
“Yes, I can lie here and think of you fellows hitting the trail,” said
Tom. “But it isn’t all velvet at that. I’m as sore as a boil.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Say, the work is as hard as bullets now. You may
well be glad you’re out of it.”
“I’ll only have that much more to make up,” Tom said, with a sigh. “I’m
going to bone a little while I’m here, though.”
Tom’s two other chums came in later, and then he fell into a day-sleep,
from which he awoke much refreshed. The orderly approached his bed,
saying:
“One of the janitors has been asking for you, Mr. Taylor. He’s been
here a number of times, but you were engaged or asleep. He’s just come
again. Will you see him?”
“One of the janitors?” repeated Tom, wonderingly.
“Yes, Flack. He’s assigned to the officers’ quarters.”
“Oh, yes, I know him.” Flack was an old soldier who had become crippled
from rheumatism, and had been assigned some light tasks about the
Academy. Tom had done him a number of slight favors, and the man seemed
unusually grateful.
“Let him come up,” Tom said, feeling quite touched by this mark of
liking on the part of one of the subordinates. Tom had quite forgotten
that Flack felt under obligations to him.
“I’ll bring him,” the orderly said.
Flack came in limping, yet with a trace of his former soldierly
uprightness. On his wrinkled face, twisted by the drawing pains of
rheumatism, there was a cheery smile.
“My, but I’m sorry to see you in this shape, Mr. Taylor, sir,” said the
janitor. “Very sorry,” and he saluted.
“Oh, it might be worse,” Tom said. “Have a chair,” and he indicated one
near the bed.
“No, I won’t stay,” Flack answered. “I just came to bring you
something.” He gave a quick look around, and noting that the orderly
had left the room, the janitor pulled a folded paper from his pocket.
Tom noted that the document consisted of several torn scraps, pasted
together with strips of transparent paper.
“This has your name on it--or at least the name Taylor,” Flack went on.
“I thought it might be valuable, so I’ve been saving it for you.”
He laid down on the bed in front of Tom a copy of the trust deed, and
walked away.
CHAPTER XXI
THE CLUE
For the moment Tom was so surprised that he did not move. He lay
there, looking at the curiously pasted-together document, so strangely
restored to him. Flack was on his way out of the room. Then Tom
realized he must know more about the matter.
“I say, Flack--wait a moment!” he called after the janitor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Just a minute. Come here. Where did you get this?”
Flack did not answer at once. He approached the bed, looked carefully
around to see that no one was within hearing, and leaning over,
whispered:
“I got it out of his waste-paper basket.”
“Whose?” asked Tom, though he knew well enough.
“The man that run you down, Mr. Taylor, sir. I got it out of Captain
Hawkesbury’s waste-paper basket.”
“Oh,” said Tom. He hoped the matter was straightforwardly
done--sneaking tactics were not tolerated at West Point. Still the
document was Tom’s own. But after his interview with the old army
officer he had been so discouraged about the matter that he had not
cared what had become of the trust deed. Now it had come back to him.
“I clean up around Captain Hawkesbury’s quarters, Mr. Taylor, sir,”
went on Flack. “When I was emptying his basket some time back I saw
this torn paper drop out. I didn’t pay much attention to it until I saw
the name Charles Taylor. I thought of you, though that isn’t your name;
is it--I mean your first name?”
“It’s my father’s,” Tom answered, as he saw where Mr. Taylor’s name
appeared in the paper.
“Ah, that accounts for it then,” the janitor said. “Well, when I saw
the name Taylor I looked further and got all the pieces. Then I pasted
’em together. I was going to bring it to you, thinking maybe you had
lost it, though I couldn’t figure how it got in his basket.”
Tom did not think it wise to illuminate the janitor on that point.
Flack went on.
“I was going to give it to you before, but I got laid up with the
rheumatics, and I didn’t want to trust it to any one else. Then you got
laid up yourself, Mr. Taylor, sir.”
“Yes,” Tom assented with a smile, “I’m laid up all right.”
“So I brought it as soon as they’d let me see you,” concluded the old
soldier, “and I hope it’ll be of value to you.”
“Thank you, very much,” Tom answered. “I have no doubt but that it
will. I’m obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Flack said. “Sure you did me enough favors. It’s
time I paid some of ’em back. He was quite anxious to get it himself,”
and he jerked his head in the direction of the officers’ quarters.
“Who was anxious to get it?” Tom wanted to know.
“Captain Hawkesbury, sir. He come to me the day after I’d taken the
basket from his room, and asked to have all his litter brought back. He
said he’d mislaid some valuable documents. I didn’t let on anything,
but I gave him a bag of papers where I had emptied his basket. That
wasn’t among ’em, though,” and he pointed to the pasted deed on Tom’s
bed.
“I’d taken that out beforehand,” Flack said, with a very human wink.
“And as it had your name on it before it had Captain Hawkesbury’s, I
thought you had the best right to it.”
“I have,” Tom said. “Thank you very much.”
He was fired with new energy now. If the document was valuable enough
to cause the old army officer to make such an effort to get it back,
Tom was glad he himself had it again.
“The captain was quite put out when he brought back the papers he’d
looked over,” went on Flack. “He asked me if I was sure there weren’t
any more. I gave him all the refuse I had in the cellar, for I only
burn the papers once a week. He went over it all, and pretty dusty and
dirty he got, too. But he didn’t find it. I took good care of that.”
“I’m glad you did,” Tom replied. “It’s quite a complicated matter,” he
went on. “Captain Hawkesbury is mistaken in thinking this paper is his.
It belongs to me.”
The young cadet did not want Captain Hawkesbury to stand in too bad
a light before the janitor, and that was why he made the qualifying
statement he did. There was time enough yet to prove certain points.
Flack went out, leaving Tom in a rather bewildered state of mind. One
fact stood out clearly. The document must have suddenly assumed new
importance to justify Captain Hawkesbury’s making such an effort to
regain possession of it. He had torn it up in a fit of anger and thrown
it in the basket.
“Evidently he was going to let it stay there,” Tom reasoned. “Then
something came up that made him want to get it back. Now what could
that have been? And why is this paper of any value?”
Tom looked at it carefully. He knew pretty well the contents of it.
The trust deed was of the usual character. The location of the land,
on which stood one end of the big railroad bridge, was given in feet,
chains, links, and by degrees--in the manner in which all descriptions
of property are made, “beginning at a point,” and so on.
But, somehow now, the dull details took on a new interest for Tom. The
draft of the deed recited how the land was not to be in the possession
of Captain Hawkesbury and Mr. Doolittle, but was to be in their hands
to insure a better settlement from the railroad. The proceeds were to
be turned over to Mr. Taylor, or his heirs and assigns. At that time,
of course, Tom’s father was in perfect health, but all deeds and such
instruments recite that the property goes to a certain person, and his
heirs and assigns.
“Now what gets me,” Tom mused as he lay there in bed, “is why the
captain wanted this paper so badly after he threw it away. I feel sure
he thought as I did, at the time I had the talk with him. He felt that
it wasn’t worth bothering with and I did also. But I feel differently
now.”
Tom folded the document and put it under his pillow. He felt better
than at any time since having been brought to the hospital.
“I want to get up and do something!” Tom told himself. And that feeling
did more toward hastening his recovery than all the doctor’s medicine.
“My! This is an improvement!” exclaimed the medical man, when Tom was
found sitting up on the occasion of the first visit after Flack’s call.
“You look a whole lot better!”
“And I feel a whole lot better!” Tom said, eagerly. “When may I get out
of bed, Doctor?”
“Pretty soon now. I guess we’ve eliminated any possibility of an
internal injury. You can get up and walk as soon as it doesn’t hurt you
too much to move. I expect, though, that you’re going to be lame and
stiff for some time yet.”
Tom was. It was agony to get out of bed for the first time, but he
persisted, knowing that the sooner he began to use his muscles and
joints the more quickly would they limber up, and lose their soreness
and stiffness.
The time came when Tom could leave the hospital and walk about. His
chums rejoiced with him. He was not wholly discharged, however, and
still kept his hospital bed as his sleeping place.
“But I’ll be with you inside of a week,” he told
“That’s what I want to hear!” his chum exclaimed.
Tom was rather apprehensive about the first meeting with Captain
Hawkesbury. He wondered how the old army officer would behave toward
him, and if he would make any mention of the missing deed.
It was on the day when the physician first said Tom could leave the
hospital for good, and return to his own quarters, that our hero met
the captain.
It was while on his way to his own room that Tom saw, coming toward
him, the man with whom he had collided. And at the sight of our hero,
walking with just the least suspicion of a limp, the face of the old
army officer took on a deeper tint of red.
Tom saluted as he passed, but was a little diffident about speaking
first.
“Oh, so you’re out of the hospital, eh?” the captain said, and there
was no kindness, but a sneer in his voice. “The next time you ride try
and keep your horse under better control” he said, sharply. “We might
have both been seriously hurt. Luckily I know how to take a fall.”
He seemed to think only of himself, as if he were the only person
concerned. He did not take into consideration the fact that Tom _had_
been hurt. There were no chances in his case.
“I could not help it, Captain Hawkesbury,” Tom said, firmly. “It was
not my fault--altogether,” he added, significantly.
“It was rank carelessness!” was the snapped-out retort.
Then, turning on his heel, the captain marched away, not answering
Tom’s parting salute. The old army officer was very insulting in tone
and manner, but Tom was not going to let that annoy him.
“Welcome home!” exclaimed Sam, as his chum came in. “It’s good to see
you back again!”
“It’s good to be back,” Tom replied, with a smile, as they shook hands.
“You’re all decorated in honor of my return,” he went on whimsically,
as he glanced at the bare walls of the room.
“Good joke!” laughed Sam. “Oh, I’d have decorated all right, if ‘tac’
would stand for it. But you know how it is here.”
“I sure do!” agreed Tom.
For Tom, matters soon resumed their normal sway at West Point. He
had to make up what he had lost in his lessons, but he managed to do
this, and soon he was back in the saddle again, literally as well as
figuratively, for he was riding once more, though a different steed
from the one that had figured in the accident.
All the while Tom was trying to plan how to find out more about his
father’s property. He had drawn up a letter to be sent to Mr. Blasdell,
the lawyer, but the young cadet was not quite satisfied with his
epistle, and was going to rewrite it.
He was on his way to call on young Blasdell, to get a few points in
this matter, when, as Tom passed the room of Captain Hawkesbury, he
saw, standing near the open window of the quarters of the old army
officer, Sam Leland. The latter seemed to be looking at a scrap of
paper that he had picked up from the ground.
“Hello, Tom!” he exclaimed. “This just came fluttering by, and I picked
it up. It’s part of a telegram, but the address is torn off, and I
don’t know to whom it belongs. It’s been thrown away, evidently. Take a
look.”
“A telegram?”
“It looks like it to me. Take a squint at it yourself,” added Sam,
after a pause.
He passed it to Tom, who saw, in a flash, these words:
“Too bad he knows about draft--sorry you lost track of it. Better come
to Garrison at once and consult with me. Will wait for you at same
hotel I always stop at.”
Tom could not comprehend for a moment, but when he saw signed to the
torn telegram the name Aaron Doolittle, it all came to him in a flash.
“I believe this is the clue I need!” Tom said aloud.
CHAPTER XXII
IN GARRISON
Sam looked at his chum a moment as if wondering whether he had heard
aright. Tom continued to stare at the crumpled and torn telegram.
“What’s the matter with you, Tom?” his chum asked. “What are you
talking about clues for? Been reading some detective stories?”
“No, but this is a clue all right. Where did you get it?”
“Found it right here on the ground. I picked it up--” he paused to
look at the open window of Captain Hawkesbury’s room. “Why, say!” Sam
exclaimed, “it must have come from there!”
“I think so,” Tom agreed.
“Wind probably blew it out,” went on Sam. “We can toss it back I
suppose, though evidently it was intended to be thrown away.”
“No, we won’t toss it back,” Tom said, quietly.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Keep it. Just as I said, I think it’s a valuable clue to the puzzle
I’m working on,” and Tom put the torn paper in his pocket.
“Say, you’ve got me going!” Sam said. “Elucidate a bit for a fellow.”
“I will,” promised Tom, “but not here. Come along where we can have a
quiet talk. This may be important.”
Tom put his chum in possession of all the facts in the case, from the
time of his father’s death and the property tangle, to the return of
the draft of the trust deed by Flack, the janitor.
“And you think Doolittle and Hawkesbury kept for themselves the money
they received from the railroad?” asked Sam.
“That’s what I believe, though I don’t know how I’m going to prove it.
However, this telegram may help some.”
“How do you think that figures in it?” asked Sam.
“Well, this is only a theory, of course,” Tom replied, “but it seems
reasonable. Something cropped up after the captain threw away the deed
I showed him, that made him want to get it back again. We know how that
plan failed.
“Then, evidently, he told Aaron Doolittle about the matter, and
Doolittle, too, had reason to want to see that draft of the deed in
their own possession. You see he states in his telegram that it is too
bad I know about the existence of the paper and he is sorry about its
loss. There must be something important back of it all when Doolittle
wants to meet the captain in Garrison, across the river.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re on the right track, Tom,” said Sam.
“Of course, I don’t know when this telegram was received,” Tom went on,
“and it may be that the captain is, even now, in Garrison, talking with
Doolittle. If he is I wish I could be there too.”
“Captain Hawkesbury isn’t in Garrison now,” Sam told his chum, “for I
saw him, a little while ago, going over to the Com’s quarters.”
“Well, he may already have had his talk,” Tom went on. “If we only knew
the date the message was delivered I would know a little better where I
was at.”
“That ought to be easy,” Sam said.
“What ought?”
“Finding out when this message came. We can interview the boy at the
office who delivered it.”
“That’s so. All’s fair in a war of this kind, when I’m trying to
establish my mother’s rights,” decided Tom. “We’ll see what we can find
out.”
By judicious inquiries of the delivery lad, they learned that the
telegram had come in only a few hours before Sam found the torn scrap.
“That settles it then,” Tom said; “he hasn’t kept the Garrison
appointment yet, and I’ve got a chance.”
“What are you going to do?” his chum asked, eagerly.
“I’m going to try and be in Garrison, at the hotel, when Captain
Hawkesbury and Aaron Doolittle have their conference,” was the reply.
“I’m going to try to hear what they say. It isn’t just my usual style
of doing things, but it can’t be helped.”
“No,” agreed Sam, “it’s fair enough to get evidence that way against
men of that character. The only thing is, though, can you make it work?”
“I can try,” Tom said.
“It’s going to take some pretty good planning,” Sam went on. “You’ll
have to leave here soon after the captain does, and follow him. It’s
going to be risky.”
“Anything is that’s worth while.”
“I suppose so. Well, I’ll help you all I can, of course.”
“Thanks, old man. I was hoping you would offer. And I’d like to have
you go to Garrison with me in case we get a chance.”
“I’ll do that, too. Now let’s go all over the ground, and see if we’ve
left our flank unguarded anywhere. We’ve got to make this a sort of
ambushed attack at first, until we see how strong the enemy really is.
So we’ll do a little mental scouting in advance.”
“Good!” cried Tom. “Anybody would think, if they didn’t know you, that
you knew a little about military matters.”
“Wouldn’t they!” laughed Sam.
Together they went over the matter point by point, and bit by bit.
There was much dependent on chance, of course, but that could not
be helped. The success of the whole plan lay in finding out when
Captain Hawkesbury went to Garrison to keep the appointment with Aaron
Doolittle. Then would come the matter of following him.
“It will be soon, I’m thinking,” Tom said. “He wouldn’t wait long on
such an important matter as that. He may go over this afternoon.”
“It will be easy for us if he does,” Sam said. “We can get leave of
absence more easily now than almost any other time.”
“Yes,” agreed Tom, who was thinking deeply.
It was not so difficult as it might seem at first glance, to find out
when Captain Hawkesbury left the Academy. The goings and comings of the
military men, as well as those of the cadets, was governed more or less
by rules and regulations. Tom thought he could find out within a few
minutes after the captain had left.
To do this he had to get the information from one of the servants
employed in the building where the Captain had his quarters. But Tom
was not going to stop at a little thing like that at this stage of the
proceedings. Accordingly he made his plan.
“We’d better ask for permission now, to be absent this afternoon
in case we want to,” suggested Sam. “It’s well to provide for the
emergency in advance.”
“You’re right,” Tom agreed.
There was no trouble on this score. As members of the third class they
were entitled to more privileges than came to the poor “plebes.”
“Now about getting over the river,” went on Sam, when that much had
been done. “How are you going to manage that?”
“We can easily hire a motor boat,” Tom declared, “and get one to bring
us back.”
“Another thing--we don’t know at what hotel Doolittle will stop.”
“There are only two where he would be likely to stop,” Tom said, “and
we can try both of those.”
“Well, that much is settled. But it isn’t going to be so easy to get in
a position to hear what they’ll talk about.”
“I realize that,” Tom said, “and, as we can’t plan that ahead, we’ll
just have to trust to luck. Somehow or other I think it’s going to be
on my side. Things are coming my way. Here is the copy of the deed
restored to me, and then you hand me the telegram that gives me the
very clue I want. Yes, I think I’m playing in luck.”
“I hope it continues,” remarked Sam.
Tom gave up his plan of seeing young Blasdell, at least for the
present. Now all depended on the move Captain Hawkesbury would make.
Events happened more quickly than Tom had expected, though he was just
as glad they did. Nervous waiting is about the most tiresome thing
there is.
Shortly after dinner, when the limited freedom Tom and Sam had secured
went into effect, Tom received word that Captain Hawkesbury had left
his quarters, in civilian’s dress.
“That means he’s going!” cried Tom. “Are you with me, Sam?”
“I sure am! We’ll go to Garrison right away.”
They managed to follow Captain Hawkesbury without being observed. He
took a motor boat, evidently one he had arranged for in advance, as it
carried no other passengers. When it was part way across the river Tom
and Sam engaged another, and after a short run they found themselves in
the city where Tom and Clarence had had their affair two years before.
“And now to try the hotels,” suggested Sam, as he and his chum started
up the street.
“Right you are.”
“Maybe he didn’t go to any hotel. He may have some friend to visit,”
continued Sam, struck by a sudden idea.
“I don’t think that, Sam. But we have got to take our chances. Come
ahead. You know what I said about hotels here.” And thus speaking our
hero led the way.
The hardest part of their task lay before them. What would be the
outcome?
CHAPTER XXIII
DISCOVERED
Tom had remarked to Sam, when discussing the matter of trying to
discover what was going on between Captain Hawkesbury and Mr.
Doolittle, that there were at that time only two hotels in Garrison
where it was likely the meeting would take place. One hostelry was not
far from the dock at which the two cadets landed, and they stopped at
this one first.
“Better take a look around,” suggested Sam, as they approached the
hotel. “The captain might be in the corridor, or outside somewhere, on
the lookout for us.”
“I don’t think he suspects anything,” Tom said, “but, at the same time,
it is well to be on the watch.”
Accordingly they looked carefully up and down the street. There was no
sign of the old army officer.
Tom and Sam also glanced cautiously about the corridor as they
approached the hotel desk. Just what their plans would be, in case they
found Mr. Doolittle stopping there, neither could say. As Tom had
remarked, they might be forced to invent something on the spur of the
moment.
“Mr. Doolittle, no, he isn’t stopping here,” the clerk said, as he
nodded to the cadets. He knew where they were from, of course. A single
look at their erect carriage and their alert, soldierly manner, told
that.
“Then he must be over at the other place,” said Tom. He knew the clerk
would have no reason for deceiving him, but of course Mr. Doolittle
might have requested that his name be kept off the register--at least
for a time.
Tom thought of this.
“You know Mr. Doolittle, of Chester?” he asked the man behind the desk.
“Yes, he has stopped here occasionally, but of late I understand he
has taken his patronage elsewhere,” the clerk said, with a smile. “As
a matter of fact, personally, I am not sorry,” he went on. “He was, if
you’ll excuse my saying so--”
He appeared to hesitate, as though he did not want to make a slighting
remark in case Tom and his chum were friends of the man in question.
“Oh, go as far as you like,” laughed Sam.
“Well, he’s a big crank, that’s the worst I could say of him,” declared
the clerk. “He made my life miserable with his complaints and his
wants. I’m glad he was wished on some other hotel.”
There was no question now as to the clerk’s aiding Mr. Doolittle in
keeping secret his visit to this hotel. He must be at the other one.
Thanking the clerk for his information, Tom and Sam left to make
another call. The second hotel was in the business section of the city,
but within walking distance, and the two chums soon found themselves
nearing it.
“Go a bit easy,” suggested Sam.
“That’s right,” agreed his chum.
They looked up and down the street. No person resembling Captain
Hawkesbury was in sight. Nor could Mr. Doolittle be seen.
“Well, let’s make a stab at it,” suggested Tom, rather desperately, and
they entered.
There was no need to ask the hotel clerk if Mr. Doolittle was a guest.
The register was open and swung around facing them, having been left so
when a man, who preceded Tom and Sam, put down his name in the book.
And there, among the other signatures, was that of Aaron Doolittle.
“He’s here, Sam,” said Tom, quickly, but in a low voice.
“Is he? That’s good. Well, what’s the next move?”
“I don’t know. I want to think. Let’s go to a quiet place and sit down.”
The clerk saw the two cadets standing near the book. He dipped the pen
in the ink, and held it out to them suggestively.
“Do you want single rooms, or a double one?” he asked.
“Neither one,” answered our hero, with a smile. “We came to see Mr.
Doolittle,” he added, quickly making up his mind to a certain plan. “Is
he in?”
The clerk turned to look at the key rack.
“He’s out,” he answered. “I remember now, he went out a little while
ago.”
“Can you tell me where?” Tom pursued. “It’s rather important,” he
added, seeing the clerk hesitate.
“Why, yes, he left word where he could be found,” the clerk said. “He
stated that he was expecting rather an important telegram, and I am to
send it to him. You’re not by any chance the telegram, are you?”
“No,” answered Tom, smiling, “but I have something important to
communicate to Mr. Doolittle.” That statement was certainly true.
“You’ll find him at Lawyer Royse’s office,” the clerk said. “It’s two
blocks up the street, on the other side. Mr. Doolittle went there with
Captain Hawkesbury a little while ago.”
“Yes, I know,” said Tom, quickly. “Thank you. I’ll call on him there at
once. Come on, Sam,” he added.
“What’s the game?” his chum asked him in a low voice, as they left the
hotel.
“This,” replied Tom, rapidly. “They have evidently gone to a lawyer’s
office to fix up some game. Matters must have developed and be going
against them. They’re afraid!”
“But what can you do at the lawyer’s office?”
“I don’t know--I’m not sure. But I know this Mr. Royse by reputation.
He stands very high in his profession. I feel sure if Doolittle and the
captain asked him to do something that was not right, even though it
was strictly legal, he would refuse.”
“You mean he wouldn’t take their case and try to keep that money away
from your mother?”
“That’s it. I’m going to appeal to Mr. Royse, after Doolittle and the
captain get through, tell him the whole story, and ask him to do the
square thing.”
“I don’t know but that’s a good plan, Tom. I’m with you. Come along.”
They hurried up the street toward the lawyer’s office. As yet they had
not seen the captain or Mr. Doolittle, though they realized that either
of the two men might have observed them, and be on their guard. But
they must take some chances.
“This is the place,” Tom said, as they halted in front of an office
building “Now for it.”
They mounted the stairs, a directory on the lower floor telling them
that the offices of Mr. Royse were on the second story. At the head of
the second flight they saw a door, with a ground-glass panel on which
was painted the lawyer’s name, and the word “Entrance.”
“Shall we go in?” asked Sam.
Tom hesitated a moment and then took a desperate resolve.
“Yes,” he said, “we’ll face ’em both if they’re in there. I’ve got to
end this suspense. Let’s go in.”
They opened the door. To their surprise the room was vacant. There was
a litter of papers and dirt on the floor, but not so much as a chair or
desk. The room opened into another, and that was equally bare.
“Why--why!” gasped Tom, blankly.
“He’s moved out,” Sam said. At the same time he picked up from the
floor, near the entrance, a small card. On this card it was stated that
Mr. Royse had moved his offices up one flight.
“This card was stuck in the door,” said Sam. “It fell out. He must have
moved up recently. Shall we go up?”
“Yes,” said Tom, “I guess we--”
He stopped suddenly. Both he and Sam heard a murmur of voices, and then
came one in louder tones. They both recognized the accent of Captain
Hawkesbury.
“Where does that sound come from?” Tom whispered.
Silently Sam pointed to the ceiling. There was a hole, evidently cut
for a stove pipe, or for ventilation. The building was an old one. The
hole in the ceiling went through the floor in the present offices of
the lawyer. It made a perfect sounding device.
As Tom and Sam listened, they could hear plainly all that was said in
the room above. Tom recognized the voices of Captain Hawkesbury and Mr.
Doolittle. The other voice he judged to be that of the lawyer.
Mr. Doolittle was speaking.
“And so you see,” he stated, “we must do something, now that Tom is
approaching the age set in the trust deed. Of course Captain Hawkesbury
and I realize that it is a ticklish legal proceeding, but we are
willing to pay well for what you can do. I will not give up the money.
I worked hard enough for it, and if it had not been for me the railroad
company never would have bought Taylor’s land.”
“Yes, and I helped put the deal through,” said the captain. “I am going
to keep my share from that little whiffet! I’ll break him yet! Can you
help us out, Mr. Royse? It’s too bad I haven’t the draft of that trust
deed, but perhaps we can do without it.”
“Now let me understand the situation, gentlemen,” said the voice of the
third speaker, evidently the lawyer.
Tom clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“We’ve discovered ’em!” he exclaimed exultingly.
CHAPTER XXIV
RESTITUTION
Softly Sam crossed the room and closed the door. This left him and Tom
alone and unobserved in the vacant offices formerly occupied by Mr.
Royse. The closing of the door also enabled them to hear more plainly,
as it shut out noises from the street.
“Just state your case, Mr. Doolittle,” said the lawyer. “And be as
brief as possible, as I am very busy.”
“Well, it’s this way,” began Mr. Doolittle. He then went into details
concerning the business relations he had had with Tom’s father. Much of
this was new to Tom, but some was an old story. In a way, however, it
revealed to him that his father had trusted Mr. Doolittle and Captain
Hawkesbury a great deal farther than was prudent. It also revealed
the fact that Mr. Taylor had larger business dealings than Tom had
suspected.
Most of what Mr. Doolittle related was strictly businesslike--sharp
practice, perhaps, but nothing criminal in it. Tom waited anxiously for
some reference to the railroad land--that on which stood one end of the
big bridge.
Presently Mr. Doolittle, with Captain Hawkesbury putting in a word or
two, came to that. It was a complicated transaction. Mr. Taylor did owe
some money to the two conspirators, but they could have paid themselves
by the sale of a much less valuable piece of property than that along
the river where the railroad was sure to come.
“But we thought we had a right to make as much as we could, since we
took the risks,” Mr. Doolittle said.
“Then, as I understand it,” the lawyer put in, “you destroyed the real
deed of trust--”
“No, we didn’t exactly destroy it,” said Captain Hawkesbury, “but we
didn’t put it on file.”
“It’s the same thing!” exclaimed the lawyer. “In other words, you
converted this property to your own uses.”
“We sold it to the railroad,” Mr. Doolittle admitted.
“And now, since a complication has arisen, and since the railroad
has made a demand on you to show them better authority than you have
hitherto shown as owners and sellers of this land, you want me to take
your case and help you out of a dilemma; is that it?” asked Mr. Royse.
“That’s it,” said Mr. Doolittle, eagerly. “We hear you are the best
corporation lawyer in these parts, and so the captain and I planned to
come to you. I don’t mind admitting that the railroad lawyer has made
me nervous.”
“Will you take the case?” asked Captain Hawkesbury. “We will pay you
well. You had better give him a retaining fee now, Mr. Doolittle.”
“He had better do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Royse, with unexpected
energy.
“Wha--what?” stammered Mr. Doolittle, and though Tom and Sam could only
hear through the ventilation opening, and could not see, still they
could fancy the look of surprise on the face of the crabbed, wealthy
man. “Won’t you take a retaining fee? It’s usual.”
“Not with me--in a case like this.”
“You mean you don’t want a retaining fee?” asked Captain Hawkesbury.
“I mean I don’t want your case!” exclaimed the lawyer. “I would not
handle such a case! It is little--if anything--short of criminal!”
“Be careful!” blurted out the captain.
“It is you who had better be careful,” said the lawyer. “I don’t want
your case--no decent member of the bar would. In fact I am not sure but
what I ought to proceed against you.”
“Don’t you dare!” cried Mr. Doolittle.
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” was the retort. “The only question is about
getting the evidence against you. If I knew this young Tom Taylor--”
“You’re going to know him, and very soon,” said Tom in a whisper to his
chum, as, with a grim smile on his face, he started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked.
“Up there to face them,” was the answer.
“It is nothing short of taking the money the railroad company paid for
the land, and using it yourselves,” the lawyer went on. “The money
should go to Mr. Taylor’s widow and his son. If I knew him--”
“Don’t you dare proceed against us!” cried Mr. Doolittle. “If you try
to make use of the information we gave you I’ll have you disbarred. You
don’t dare!”
“Oh, yes I do dare,” was the calm assurance. “In fact I have just
made up my mind that I will endeavor to find this young man and his
mother, and see what I can do to make restitution to them. I feel that
I would be concealing a crime if I did not. I wish I could see this Tom
Taylor--”
“You’re going to see him!” exclaimed Tom. “Come on, Sam!”
He fairly jumped up the stairs, three at a time, Sam following. At the
head of the second flight was a door similar to the one they had first
entered. Without knocking, Tom entered. He came at a dramatic moment.
Mr. Doolittle and Captain Hawkesbury had arisen, and were facing the
lawyer. Mr. Royse was a big man, and he remained seated. It was easy to
see that he was not at all alarmed. Righteous indignation showed in his
face. At the entrance of Tom and Sam the two conspirators faced about
suddenly.
“You--here?” gasped Mr. Doolittle.
“Tom Taylor!” echoed Captain Hawkesbury. “How dare you leave the
Academy?” he demanded, too flustered, evidently, to return the salute
which Tom and Sam gave with military precision.
“We have a permit, Captain Hawkesbury,” Tom said, calmly. “I beg your
pardon, sir,” he went on to the lawyer, “but I accidentally overheard
you express a wish to see me.”
“To see you? I’m afraid I haven’t the honor of--”
“I’m Tom Taylor, a cadet at the United States Military Academy,” Tom
said. “It is my father’s land those two men sold to the railroad,” and
he pointed an accusing finger.
“Here’s a copy of the trust deed they spoke of, or, rather, a rough
draft of it,” he went on, putting on the desk in front of the lawyer
the pasted paper that had so strangely come back to him.
“Oh--ah!” said Mr. Royse, seemingly rather at a loss to know what
action to take.
“Will you act for me--for my mother?” Tom went on, eagerly. “I can’t
pay you a big retaining fee, but I understand it is sometimes the
practice for lawyers to take cases like this on a contingency fee
basis.”
“It is done every day,” Mr. Royse said. “I shall look into this
matter--”
“If you dare take up this case, and proceed against us,” fairly shouted
Mr. Doolittle, “I’ll have you--I’ll have you--”
Captain Hawkesbury touched his companion on the arm.
“We had better go to see another lawyer,” he suggested.
“I think so myself,” said Mr. Royse, dryly, “though I doubt if you can
get a reputable one to take up your case. Good afternoon. You will
probably hear from me very soon,” he added, significantly.
Mr. Doolittle opened his mouth, as though to splutter out some angry
words, but Captain Hawkesbury, with a vindictive look at Tom and Sam,
led his companion from the room.
“Now, let’s get down to business,” suggested Mr. Royse, as Tom
presented his chum, Sam.
Tom told his story quickly. It fitted in with what he had heard through
the ventilating hole, and he explained to the lawyer how it had come
about that the two cadets had followed the conspirators.
“I didn’t think, when I moved my office upstairs, that I would get a
case like this,” said the lawyer. “But I’ll do my best for you, Tom.
Mind, I don’t promise anything, but it looks very much as though your
mother would get her rights.”
“That’s all I want,” Tom said. “It will be a big load off my shoulders
to know that my mother is provided for. And now what is the next thing
to do?”
“You may leave everything to me,” said the lawyer. “I will at once
start the ball rolling.”
“I--I’m not prepared to pay anything--now,” Tom faltered.
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” was the laughing answer. “I turned down
one retaining fee this afternoon, so you may know I’m not suffering
financially. No, leave everything to me, and I’ll communicate with you
at West Point.”
“And that’s the place we’d better be heading for on the double quick,
Tom,” put in Sam. “If we don’t hustle we’ll overstay our leave and that
may give Captain Hawkesbury a chance to skin us.”
“I fancy he won’t do much more skinning,” said Mr. Royse,
significantly. “If I can bring this matter home to him it will be a
bad mark against him.”
“It’s too bad,” Tom said, “but--”
“It’s best to have it all come out,” the lawyer assured him.
Tom left the pasted copy of the trust deed with Mr. Royse, and the two
cadets reached West Point just in time not to be reported. They saw
nothing of Captain Hawkesbury, and it became known that night that he
had left the Academy on a two days furlough.
“Probably he and Doolittle have gone off to try and stop the exposure,”
Sam said.
“It looks that way,” Tom admitted.
Tom was so excited by what he had just gone through that he did not
sleep well that night. Nor did he give the proper attention to his
lessons the next day. He made a failure and was given some demerits.
Events occurred rapidly during the next few days. Mr. Royse was busy,
sending telegrams and letters, having lawyers in other cities look up
records, and in communicating with the railroad company.
Captain Hawkesbury returned to West Point glummer than ever, and “as
mean as they make ’em,” to quote Sam Leland. He seemed to be eagerly
looking to catch Tom in some violation of rules, that he might punish
him. But Tom refrained from taking part in any pranks during those
perilous times, though several of his chums took chances.
Then came the climax.
Mr. Royse sent Tom a telegram which read:
“Restitution will be made. Railroad company has in trust large sum
of money owing on land. This will come to your mother and you. Can
also force Doolittle and Hawkesbury to pay back all they wrongfully
took. Charges to be preferred against Captain Hawkesbury, of conduct
unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.”
“Whew!” whistled Tom, as he showed this to Sam. “Things are certainly
happening!”
CHAPTER XXV
GRADUATION
Captain Hawkesbury did not wait for charges to be preferred against him
for his action in keeping from Tom and Mrs. Taylor the money due them.
The old army officer had kept secret his part in the transaction a long
time, but at last it came out. He resigned as instructor at West Point,
and also withdrew from the United States service.
That was the end of Captain Hawkesbury, and his nephew Clarence,
too, as far as Tom was concerned. The conspiring captain had made
considerable from his association with Mr. Taylor and Mr. Doolittle,
and some of his property was legally attached for the benefit of Mrs.
Taylor’s claim.
Mr. Doolittle was wealthy, aside from the money he had wrongfully
obtained from the Taylor estate. He defied Mr. Royse and Tom for a
time, but the threat of a legal suit brought him to terms.
Rather than take a chance in that he agreed to pay back all he had
taken, with interest. And this, with what money the railroad company
had still held back, put Mrs. Taylor, in very easy circumstances.
“You won’t have to sew any more,” Tom wrote to her, “and you can now
afford to come to West Point and see me graduate.”
For Tom’s graduation time was approaching.
It must not be imagined that getting restitution was as easy as it
sounds. There was much legal work to do, but Mr. Royse attended well
to that. It came out that the railroad company had not been altogether
satisfied with the land title Mr. Doolittle and Captain Hawkesbury
had given them, so they retained a part of the price agreed upon for
the bridge approach, until a certain time when the matter should be
adjusted.
When that time came, they began to make inquiries as to why their claim
was not satisfied. And it was this inquiry that complicated matters, so
that they eventually swung the way of Tom and his mother.
“Well, I’m glad old Hawkesbury isn’t here any more,” said Harry Houston
one day as the four chums were strolling about the grounds after drill.
“You deserve a vote of thanks, Tom, for getting him out.”
“That’s right!” chimed in Chad Wilson.
“Oh, I didn’t get him out. He got himself out,” Tom answered. “But I’m
glad, too, that he’s gone. We’ve got some stiff work ahead of us, and
he’d only make it all the harder for us.”
There was indeed hard work, but it was compensated for when Tom and his
chums finally got into the first class--that is they were now beginning
their fourth, and final, year at West Point. They now had many more
privileges than at first. They could leave camp when they liked, after
duty; they had first choice of horses and rooms--in fact they were very
superior beings compared to the poor plebes.
Tom’s mother, now properly installed in a fine home in Chester, came to
see him, and he took her about West Point, from Flirtation Walk to Fort
Putnam and Old Fort Clinton--to all the places of interest--so that she
enjoyed herself very much. She was very proud of her son, and Tom’s
chums made much of his mother.
Tom devoted himself diligently to his studies. Civil and military
engineering formed a large part, during that last year, and naturally
gunnery and ordnance were made much of. Tom had developed into one of
the best riders at the Academy, and there were some daring and reckless
ones.
It was an inspiring sight to see the first class of seventy cadets
charge at top gallop across the gravel plain, sabres flashing in the
sun. From a line near the hedge they would start toward the chapel.
Then, when the bugle blew, as they were riding as if to charge an
enemy, Tom and his fellow riders would raise their sabres high in the
air, and yell “fit to split their throats.”
Then would come light artillery drill, with the cannon rattling across
the plain to be wheeled into line and fired. The very horses seemed to
delight in the excitement and din, and certainly Tom and his fellows
enjoyed it.
June was approaching--Graduation June--when Tom would leave West Point,
to become a second lieutenant in the regular army. One day in February
the gunner at Tom’s table made the usual announcement of “One Hundred
Days till June.” And there was the usual rising to greet the sun. Then
came the “One Hundred Nights’ Entertainment,” a function replete with
fun, marking as it does the last cycle before the final exercises. A
play was given, Tom taking a girl’s part with such effect that he was
recalled again and again.
But it was not all fun--that closing of the final year. There was hard
mental labor to be done in order to pass the examinations, and Tom had
to work hard, as did his chums. Tom was trying for high class honors,
and stood a good chance of winning them. Others were content to take
what they could get.
Tom made the acquaintance of some charming young ladies, and had many
a good time at the hops and other entertainments that marked the
graduation period.
There were drills, parades and inspections. In the riding hall each
cadet tried to outdo the others in skill and daring; in reckless riding
with drawn sabres, cutting at the leather heads on set-up posts; in
riding at the rings; in all the usual exploits. Some rode bareback,
others leaped hurdles, still others rode two horses at once, standing
with one foot on the back of each.
“Well how about it, Tom, old man?” asked Sam, as he met his chum after
the last examination. “Get through all right?”
“I hope so. How about you?”
“Oh, I guess I managed to squeeze through. I’m not trying to set a
pace, like you.”
“Well I don’t know that I have set it, Sam,” returned Tom.
“Oh, I think you did.”
And so it proved, for when the final standings were announced Tom
Taylor was second man in his class, first place going to a New York
cadet, who was a brilliant student, a first-class athlete and one of
the most popular men in his division.
Not that Tom lacked popularity. It was felt, on the part of the cadets
at least, that he was responsible for the resignation of Captain
Hawkesbury, and this had endeared Tom to all, for the old army officer
was cordially hated.
When the examinations were over, and Tom and the others realized they
had not been “found,” which would have meant that they had actually
“lost,” there was more freedom. There was little to do save plan
enjoyments, and these were crowded in to the limit.
Tom was a good dancer, and he met many girl friends of other cadets who
were eager to have him for a partner. Certainly Tom, in his natty new
uniform, was a partner of whom to be proud.
But all good things have an ending some time, and it was so at West
Point.
“Last parade!” announced Sam one day, as he and Tom were dressing
themselves for it. “Last parade, old man!”
“Yes,” Tom said. “And while there was a time when I thought this would
never come, now that it is here I rather wish it wasn’t to be.”
“Same here. We’ll soon cut loose from old West Point.”
To the tune “The Dashing White Sergeant,” played only on certain
occasions, the parade came to an end. Tom and the others marched, with
bared heads, to the platform to receive a little farewell talk from the
commandant. Again Tom heard, as he had when a plebe, the strains of
“Auld Lang Syne,” and “Home, Sweet Home.” He felt a choking sensation
in his throat. This was the end of what, with all its hardships and
drawbacks, had been a wonderful four years. Now he was to go out into
the world to show what he could do.
True, there was a place made for him, a place of a sort, but he must
depend on himself more than ever now. He would be what he could make
himself. But he had had one of the best trainings in the world with
which to do it.
Following the little talk by the Commandant, Tom and his fellows of the
graduating class reviewed the battalion as it marched past them. Then
they went to their barracks to preen for the graduation hop that night.
It was another wonderful time for Tom Taylor.
The next morning the diplomas were to be given out by the Secretary
of War, while the Academic Board, resplendent in brilliant uniforms,
looked on. They were now powerless against the successful cadets, and
they seemed to grin cheerfully in acknowledging it.
There was more music, more marching to and fro, more lines of severely
straight young soldiers. One by one the graduates went up to the
platform, and received the sheepskins which made them commissioned
officers in Uncle Sam’s army.
“Well, it’s all over,” said Tom to Sam, as they went to their room for
the last time.
“No, it’s only just beginning,” was the answer. “From now on ought to
be the best part of our lives.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Tom said. “Well, it’s a heap sight happier for me
than when I first came here. I don’t have to worry about my mother now.”
“No, now that you got hold of the old army officer’s secret, things are
coming your way,” agreed Sam.
The two chums planned to see each other that summer before taking up
their new duties.
“And now--good-bye, West Point,” said Tom, softly, the next day, as he
prepared to leave and to meet his mother in Chester. “I hope all the
plebes will enjoy their stay as much as I did--after I got over being
one.”
“So say we all!” echoed Sam. “Good-bye, West Point!”
THE END
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THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES
BY CAPT. JAMES CARSON
The Saddle Boys of the Rockies
The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon
The Saddle Boys on the Plains
The Saddle Boys at Circle Ranch
The Saddle Boys on Mexican Trails
THE DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES
BY ROY ROCKWOOD
Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator
Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane
Dave Dashaway and His Giant Airship
Dave Dashaway Around the World
Dave Dashaway: Air Champion
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES
BY ROY ROCKWOOD
The Speedwell Boys on Motorcycles
The Speedwell Boys and Their Racing Auto
The Speedwell Boys and Their Power Launch
The Speedwell Boys in a Submarine
The Speedwell Boys and Their Ice Racer
THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
Tom Fairfield’s School Days
Tom Fairfield at Sea
Tom Fairfield in Camp
Tom Fairfield’s Pluck and Luck
Tom Fairfield’s Hunting Trip
THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
Fred Fenton the Pitcher
Fred Fenton in the Line
Fred Fenton on the Crew
Fred Fenton on the Track
Fred Fenton: Marathon Runner
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
BY LESTER CHADWICK
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_
_Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_
_Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._
[Illustration]
1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS
_A Story of College Baseball_
Tom Parsons, a “hayseed,” makes good on the scrub team of Randall
College.
2. A QUARTERBACK’S PLUCK
_A Story of College Football_
A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick’s best style, that is bound to
grip the reader from the start.
3. BATTING TO WIN
_A Story of College Baseball_
Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on
Randall College team. There is a great game.
4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
_A Story of College Football_
After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes
a touchdown that won a big game.
5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
_A Story of College Athletics_
The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely
exciting.
6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS
_A Story of College Water Sports_
Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track,
gridiron and diamond.
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
THE JACK RANGER SERIES
BY CLARENCE YOUNG
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_
_Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_
_Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to
read._
[Illustration]
1. JACK RANGER’S SCHOOL DAYS
_or The Rivals of Washington Hall_
You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can’t help it. He is bright and
cheery, and earnest in all he does.
2. JACK RANGER’S WESTERN TRIP
_or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_
This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear
up the mystery surrounding his father’s disappearance.
3. JACK RANGER’S SCHOOL VICTORIES
_or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_
Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school
games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field.
4. JACK RANGER’S OCEAN CRUISE
_or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_
How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a “yarn” no boy
will want to miss.
5. JACK RANGER’S GUN CLUB
_or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_
Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game.
They have many adventures in the mountains.
6. JACK RANGER’S TREASURE BOX
_or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_
Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it
makes an absorbing tale.
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES
BY LESTER CHADWICK
_12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_
[Illustration]
BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
_or The Rivals of Riverside_
Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and
particularly to pitch.
BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
_or Pitching for the Blue Banner_
Joe’s great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the
school team.
BASEBALL JOE AT YALE
_or Pitching for the College Championship_
In his second year at Yale Joe becomes a varsity pitcher.
BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE
_or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_
From Yale College to a baseball league of our Central States.
BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE
_or A Young Pitcher’s Hardest Struggles_
From the Central League Joe goes to the St. Louis Nationals.
BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS
_or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_
Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay.
BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES
_or Pitching for the Championship_
What Joe did to win the series will thrill the most jaded reader.
BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD
_or Pitching on a Grand Tour_
The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world.
BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING
_or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_
Joe becomes the greatest batter in the game.
BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE
_or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_
Throwing the game meant a fortune but also dishonor.
BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM
_or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_
Joe is elevated to the position of captain.
BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE
_or The Record that was Worth While_
Joe’s enemies hatch out a plot to put his pitching arm out of
commission.
_Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.
In the book list at the start, “TREASURER HUNTER” changed to “TREASURE
HUNTER”
Page 53: “saw saveral” changed to “saw several”
Page 62: “tactial officer” changed to “tactical officer”
Page 80-91: “may-but if we” changed to “maybe if we”
Page 81: “almos tinsultingly” changed to “almost insultingly”
Page 86: “fundemental requirements” changed to “fundamental
requirements”
Page 110: “merely a carbureter” changed to “merely a carburetor”
Page 113: “Explosion--carbureter,” changed to “Explosion--carburetor,”
Page 123: “half our later” changed to “half hour later”
Page 169: The end of the sentence “... inside of a week,” he told” is
missing in the original and has been left as-is.
Page 177: “of couse” changed to “of course”
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