Mark’s first thought was as to a return train. They rushed off to the depot to find out, where they discovered a ticket agent who gazed doubtfully at their soiled and ragged clothing. The three realized then for the first time that their benefactor had kept a good deal of that ten dollars for himself, and poor Chauncey, to whom a wilted collar was agony, fairly groaned as he gazed at himself. However, they found that there was a train in ten minutes; and another at three-thirty-due at West Point at four-thirty-eight. That was the essential thing, and the three wandered out to the street again.
“We mustn’t go far, don’t cher know,” observed Chauncey. “We don’t want to miss that train.”
Chauncey’s was not a very daring or original mind. There was an idea floating through Mark’s head just then that never occurred to Chauncey; it would have knocked him over if it had.
“When we went up there to West Point,” began Mark, suddenly, “we expected to stay there two years without ever once venturing off the post.”
“Yes,” said Chauncey. “Bah Jove, we did.”
“And here we are down at Hoboken, opposite New York.”
“Yes,” assented Chauncey again.
“It feels good to be loose, don’t it?” observed Mark.
And still Chauncey didn’t “tumble”; Texas’ eyes were beginning to dance however.
“It’s awfully stupid back there on the reservation, not half as lively as New York.”