“He won’t get a chance to use his guns this time,” snarled the first speaker. “And we’ve got enough of a crowd to handle any of the others if they wake up. Ready, now!”
This conversation was held in a low tone off to one side. Then, having agreed just what each was to do, the crowd scattered and stole silently up to the tent.
It was important that the yearlings should not awaken the others; they placed themselves stealthily about the two victims, waited an instant, and then at the signal stooped and pinned them to the earth. The yearlings were quite expert at that now, and the two never even got a chance to gasp. They were lifted up and run quickly away, held so tight that they couldn’t even kick. It was easy when there were three or four to one plebe.
The plan worked perfectly, and it seemed as if no one had discovered it. Neither of the other two sleepers had moved. Over in the next tent, however, some one was awakened by the noise, a plebe of Company B, another member of the immortal Seven. He sprang to his tent door, and an instant later found himself powerless in the grip of two yearlings who had stayed behind to watch out for just that accident. Evidently this attack was better planned than the last one.
Master Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall, of Fifth Avenue, New York, was the unfortunate third prisoner. He felt himself rushed over the beat of the purposely negligent sentry and hurried into the confines of the solitary old Fort Clinton, where he was bound and gagged with celerity and precision and unceremoniously tumbled to the ground by the side of Mark and Texas.
Everything was ready for the hazing then.
The eight who had participated in that kidnaping, speedily resolved themselves into two groups of four each. The members of one group we do not know, but the other four were our old friends, Bull Harris, Gus Murray, Merry Vance and Baby Edwards. They had stepped to one side to talk over the fate of their unfortunate prisoners.
“By Heaven!” cried Bull, clinching his fists in anger. “Fellows, we’ve got him at last! Do you realize it, he’s ours to do with as we please. And if I don’t make him sorry he ever lived this night, I hope I may die on the spot.”
Bull was striding up and down in excitement as he muttered this. And there was no less hatred and malice in the eyes of his three whispering companions.
“I could kill him!” cried Gus; and he said it as if he meant it.