“We’ll find the right ones in the Rogues’ Gallery,” he remarked sarcastically.
That fired Chauncey again, and he went off into another tirade of abuse and indignation, which was finally closed by the officers offering to “soak him” if he didn’t shut up. Then they were led off to a cell—number seven, curiously enough. And as the door shut with a clank the three gasped and realized that it was the death knell of their earthly hopes.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAUNCEY HAS AN IDEA.
Three more utterly discouraged and disgusted plebes than our friends would be hard to manufacture. There wasn’t a ray of hope, any more than a ray of light to illumine that dark cell. There was only one possibility to be considered, apparently—they would be hauled up in the police court the next morning and required to give an account of themselves. If they gave it, said they were cadets, it would be good-by West Point; for they had broken a dozen rules. If on the other hand they chose to remain Peter Smith, John Jones and Timothy O’Flaherty, young toughs, it would be something like “One thousand dollars’ bail,” or else “remanded without bail for trial”—and no West Point all the same!
The three had characteristic methods of showing their disgust. Texas had gone to sleep in a corner, seeing no use in worrying. Mark was sitting moodily on the floor, trying his best to think of something to do. Chauncey was prancing up and down the cell about as indignant as ever was a “haughty aristocrat,” vowing vengeance against everybody and everything in a blue uniform as sure as his name was Chaun—er, Peter Smith.
Mad and excited as Chauncey was, it was from him that the first gleam of hope came. And when Chauncey hit upon his idea he fairly kicked himself for his stupidity in not hitting on it before. A moment later his friends, and in fact the whole station house, were startled by his wild yells for “somebody” to come there.
An officer came in a hurry thinking of murder or what not.
“What do you want?” he cried.
“Bah Jove!” remarked our young friend, eying him with haughty scorn that made a hilarious contrast with his outlandish green August overcoat. “Bah Jove, don’t be so peremptory, so rude, ye know!”