“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.