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Frank Merriwell's Chums, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 39. An Open Insult |
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_ CHAPTER XXXIX. AN OPEN INSULT The spirit of mischief seemed to break loose in the camp that night. A dozen times were some of the plebes hauled out of bed and slid around the streets enveloped in their own blankets, ridden on a tentpole, or an old wheelbarrow, tossed in tent flies, or nearly smothered with smoke that filled their tents from the burning of some vile-smelling stuff. Time after time was the guard turned out to capture the perpetrators of these tricks, but still alarm followed alarm, and not one of the jokers was captured. Every inspection seemed to show the older cadets all in their beds and sleeping with amazing soundness, considering the racket that was going on. Lieutenant Gordan was at his wits' end, for never had there been such an outbreak in camp since his coming to Fardale, and he began to believe there was something radically wrong about the system as enforced at the academy. The professors were driven from their tents and compelled to take refuge in the academy in order to get any sleep, and they all felt like resigning their positions and seeking occupations in other walks of life. At West Point such things were once possible, but the introduction of long rows of gas lamps put an end to it by illuminating the camp so that the pranks could not be performed without the greatest danger of detection. At Fardale the gas lamps were missing, and a dark night during the first weeks of each yearly encampment was certain to be a wild night. It happened that Fred Davis had been assigned to guard duty on this particular night, and, for a long time, none of the disturbances took place on his post. At length, however, when things had been quiet for an ominous length of time, Fred saw three figures coming swiftly toward him through the darkness. "Halt!" he commanded, promptly. "Who comes there?" "The corporal of the guard," was the reply, given in a muffled tone of voice. "Advance, corporal of the guard, and give the countersign." Then followed a suspicious hesitation. Fred fancied he heard a faint sound in his rear, but, before he could make a move, a blanket was thrown over his head, and he was hurled to the ground. He struggled with surprising strength, but he was helpless in the hands of his assailants. His musket had been torn from his hands, and he seemed to feel something slitting and tearing his clothing. Once he was struck or kicked with great violence. After a few moments of this treatment, Davis managed to get his head clear of the enfolding blanket and shout for help. His cries produced another alarm in camp, and his assailants quickly took to flight, leaving him in a badly battered condition. Fred got upon his feet, and was standing dazed and bewildered when the corporal of the guard actually appeared, with the guard at his back. Lieutenant Gordan, who had been on the alert for another outbreak, showed up at the same time; but Davis was so bewildered that it was several moments before he could answer their questions. It was finally found that he had been robbed of his gun, his belt slashed, and his uniform cut in half a dozen different places, so it was quite ruined. By this time Lieutenant Gordan was thoroughly angry, and he declared he would give his time and attention during the next week to the discovery and punishment of the perpetrators of the outrage. "There is going to be an end to this hazing of sentries," he asserted. "Somebody shall be made an example of, and we'll see if that will do any good." Fred was told to go to his tent and get to bed, and he was only too glad to do so. Somehow, in the morning, the report got around that Davis had been stabbed or cut in the attack upon him. Frank lost no time in investigating, finding his fag attending to duties about his own tent. In answer to Merriwell's questions, Fred said he had not been cut in any way, but his clothing had been mutilated, and he had been robbed of his gun, cartridge-box and bayonet-scabbard. He showed Frank his clothing, and the latter was scarcely less indignant than Lieutenant Gordan had been. "This is not fun," Merriwell declared. "It is malicious and wanton brutality, and I fancy I can lay my hands on the fellow who was at the bottom of it." The search for Fred's rifle had proved unsuccessful, and so he was given another from the armory, while a new uniform was ordered for him. Lieutenant Gordan came around, and questioned the unlucky plebe again concerning the assault upon him; but it had been too dark for him to recognize any of his assailants, and the voice of the fellow who had announced himself as corporal of the guard had been muffled and disguised. It now began to appear that the unusual activity during the night had been for the purpose of drawing the attention to the side of the camp opposite Davis' post, so that the attack upon him might be carried out successfully. The boys found enough to think of and talk about during such opportunities as were given them. At dinner the conversation was almost entirely about the tumultuous events of the night, and, by keeping eyes and ears open, Frank sought to discover who knew the most concerning those things which had taken place. Bascomb seemed in high spirits. Over and over, in a sarcastic way, he repeated Lieutenant Gordan's assertion that such actions were outrageous, and must be stopped, appearing very grave as he did so, but winking slyly to some particular friend. And Frank noted every fellow to whom Bascomb winked. The big fellow could not keep his bullying propensities suppressed, and the sight of Fred Davis seemed to arouse him. Singling out the little plebe, he took a station at the opposite side of the table, observing: "It is really too bad anybody should haze a pretty boy like him. Look at the tender blue in his eyes, and the delicate pink in his cheeks. Isn't he just too sweet to live! Oh, the fellows won't do a thing to him here--not a thing!" Fred paid no attention to Bascomb, although the hot blood rushed to his face. The bully continued: "Before you, gentlemen, masticating his rations, sits a section edition of the late lamented George Washington. Those who are conversant with history are aware that little George found it impossible to tell a lie. Evidently Baby has heard of George, and seeks to emulate the Father of his Country, for he also finds it extremely difficult to tell a lie. Gentlemen, you may, at this very moment, be regarding a future president of the United States. The thought should overcome you with awe." Bascomb's friends snickered, and the big yearling proceeded to address himself directly to Davis. "Look here, Baby," he said, "I want you to tell us just what happened to you last night. We want to know the exact facts of the case." With a trace of spirit, Davis looked up, and asked: "Don't you, sir?" "Don't I what?" demanded Bascomb, harshly. "Don't you know?" "What do you mean by that? How should I know?" "I thought you might remember," said Fred, in a low tone. That was enough to give the bully his opportunity to rave and bluster. "That is an insult!" he fiercely declared, glaring at the little plebe as if he longed to devour him. "Such an insinuation is an insult! Do you mean to say that I had anything to do with the assault upon you?" "I don't mean to say anything more about it." "Oh, you don't? That is actually an open defiance. But I am going to put a question to you, and see if you will refuse to answer me. What do you know about it?" "I know enough to mind my own business." Frank laughed softly, and it was Bascomb's turn to flush angrily. "You are very cool about it," grated the bully, reaching out and picking up a glass of water. "Perhaps this will make you still cooler." He flung the water full and fair into Fred Davis' face. _ |
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