"A very timely arrival," remarked Dewey, smoothing his jacket. "Very timely, b'gee! Reminds me——"
"Bless my soul!" cried Indian.
"Going, are you?" put in Mark, as the discomfited Murray started to slink away. "Well, good-evening. I've had my satisfaction for being called a coward by you."
"You shall pay for this," the furious cadet muttered. "Pay for it as sure as I'm alive!"
His threat was taken lightly by the plebes; they had little idea of what he meant when he spoke. And they were chatting merrily about the adventure as they turned and made their way back to barracks.
"It only goes to show," was Mark's verdict, "that an alliance is a first-rate idea. I saw that fellow prowling around barracks and I knew right away what he was up to. We've one more enemy, that's all."
That was not all, by a good sight. The angry yearling hurried back to camp, nursing his feelings as he went; there he poured out the vials of his wrath into the ears of his two sympathetic companions, Bull and the Baby. And the three of them spent the rest of that evening, up to tattoo, discussing their revenge, thinking up a thousand pretexts upon which Cadet Mallory might be "skinned." There was a bombshell scheduled to fall into the midst of the "alliance" the next day.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE BOMBSHELL FALLS.
Nothing happened that evening; Mark and his friends passed their time in serene unconsciousness of any danger, merrily discussing the latest hazing effort of the enemy. Bull Harris and his crowd did not put in appearance, or try to put their plot into execution, for the simple reason that there was no chance. The first "whack," so to speak, was scheduled for the A. M. inspection the next day. The only inspection at night is made by a "tac"—a practical officer—who goes the rounds with a dark lantern after taps to make sure that no plebes have been run away with.