Texas was to show his skill and technique in hurling an imaginary lasso and firing an imaginary revolver from an imaginary galloping horse. He was to tell of the geography, topography, climate and resources of the Lone Star State; he was to recount the exploits of his "dad," "the Hon. Scrap Powers, sah, o' Hurricane Co.," and his uncle, the new Senator-elect. Mark was to give rules for rescuing damsels, saving expresses and ferryboats, etc. And Mr. Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers of Kansas was to state his favorite method of raising three-legged chickens and three-foot whiskers.
That was the delicious programme as finally agreed upon by the yearlings. And there was only one drawback met in the execution of it. The four plebes could not be found!
They weren't in their tent; they weren't in camp! Preposterous! The yearlings hunted, scarcely able to believe their eyes. The plebes, of course, had a perfect right to take a walk after supper if they chose. But the very idea of daring to do it on the first night in camp, when they knew that the yearlings would visit them and expect to be entertained! It was an unheard-of thing to do; but it was just what one would have expected of those B. J. beasts, so the yearlings grumbled, as they went off to other tents to engage other plebes in conversation and controversy.
But where were the four? No place in particular. They had simply joined the other three and had the impudence to disappear in the woods for a stroll until tattoo. They had come to the conclusion that it was better to do that than to stay and be "guyed," as they most certainly would be if they refused their tormentors' requests. And Mark had overruled Texas' vehement offer to stay and "do up the hull crowd," deciding that the cover of the night would be favorable to the sevens' hazing, and that until then they should make themselves scarce.
In the meantime there was high old sport in Camp McPherson. In response to the requests of the merry yearlings, some plebes were sitting out on the company streets and rowing desperate races at a 34-to-the-minute stroke with brooms for oars and air for water; some were playing imaginary hand-organs, while others sang songs to the tunes; some "beasts" were imitating every imaginable animal in a real "menagerie," and some were relating their personal history while trying to stand on their heads.
All this kind of hazing is good-natured and hurts no one physically, however much the loss of dignity may torment some sensitive souls. It is the only kind of hazing that remains to any great extent nowadays.
In the midst of such hilarity time passes very rapidly—to the yearlings, anyway. In almost no time tattoo had sounded; and then the companies lined up for the evening roll call, the seven dropping into line as silently as they had stolen off, deigning a word to no one in explanation of their strange conduct.
"That's what I call a pretty B. J. trick!" growled Cadet Harris. Bull had been looking forward with great glee to that evening's chance to ridicule Mark, with all his classmates to back him; it was a lost chance now, and Bull was angry in consequence.
Bull's cronies agreed with him as to the "B. J.-ness" of that trick. And they, along with a good many others, too, agreed that the trick ought not be allowed to succeed.
"We ought to haze him ten times as hard to-night to make up for it!" was the verdict.