Still Chauncey only said “Yes.”
“Rather kind of the yearlings to give us a holiday, wasn’t it?” observed Mark.
Another “Yes,” and then seeing that his efforts were of no use Mark came out with his proposition.
“Stupid!” he laughed. “Don’t you see what I mean? I’m not going back on that first train.”
“Not going back on that train!” gasped Chauncey. “Bah Jove! then what——”
His horrified inquiries were interrupted by a wild whoop from the delighted Texas. Texas was beginning to wriggle his fingers, which meant that Texas was excited. And suddenly he sprang forward and started down the street, seizing his expostulating companion under the arm and dragging him ahead as if he had been a child.
Some ten minutes later those three members of the Banded Seven—B. B. J.—were on a Christopher Street ferryboat bound for New York and bent upon having some “fun.” When the Seven set out for fun they usually got it; they had all they could carry in this case.
It was with a truly delicious sense of freedom that they strolled about the deck of that lumbering boat. Only one who has been to West Point can appreciate it. Day after day on that army reservation, with a penalty of dismissal for leaving it, grows woefully monotonous even to the very busy plebe. Zest was added to their venture by the fact that they knew they were breaking rules and might be found out any moment.
“Still if we are,” laughed Mark, “we can lay the blame on Bull. And now for the fun.”
They half expected the fun would come rushing out to welcome them the moment they got into the light of the street. They expected a fire or a murder at the very least. And felt really hurt because they met only a sleepy hack driver talking to a sleepy policeman. And an empty street car and a few slouchy-looking fellows like themselves lounging about a saloon. However it was exciting to be in New York anyway; what more could the three B. J. plebes want?