“An’ we got no money!” said the second.
“Bah Jove!” added the third, the one Timothy recognized as “Trousers” because he was the only one who had them. “Réveille’ll sound, don’t cher know, and we won’t be there.”
This entertaining conversation was kept up for some fifteen minutes more. All Mr. O’Flaherty managed to make out was that they had been sent away from somewhere and they hadn’t the least idea how to get back. Presently one of them—Trousers—discovered that he did have some money, plenty of it, whereupon Timothy’s mouth began to water. That cleared the situation in his eyes, but it didn’t seem to in theirs. They were afraid of being late and getting caught by some wild animal called réveille; moreover, they couldn’t take a train because they had no clothes. Here Timothy thought he’d better step in.
“Hey, Trousers!” said he.
The “dude” thus designated didn’t recognize himself, so Timothy edged up and poked him to make him look.
“Hey, Trousers!” said he. “I kin git you ducks some togs.”
To make a long story short the “ducks” “tumbled” to that proposition in a hurry. Even Trousers, the aristocrat, condescended to sit down and discuss ways and means with that very sociable tramp. To make the story still shorter Timothy propounded a plan and found it agreeable; “jumped” the car when it was finally switched off at Hoboken; and set out with ten dollars of the stranger’s money, to buy second-hand clothing at one o’clock in the morning.
“You’ll be sure to come back,” said Mark. “Because we’ll make it fifteen if you do.”
That settled whatever idea of “taking a sneak” was lurking in the messenger’s mind. He vowed to return, “sure as me name is Timothy O’Flaherty,” which, as we know, it was. And he came too. He flung a pile of duds into the car and went off whistling with the promised reward of virtue in his pocket. It was a “bully graft” for him anyhow, and he promised himself a regular roaring good time. That is the last we shall see of Timothy.
As to the plebes their joy was equally as great. They felt that this hazing was the supreme effort of the desperate Bull Harris, and it failed. Now that they were safe they could contemplate the delight of turning up smiling at réveille to the consternation of “the enemy.” Truly this involuntary journey had panned out to be a very pleasant affair indeed.