The look that was upon the faces of the three would have moved a Sphinx to tears. They sank back in the carriage and never said one word. It was all over. West Point was gone. To the three that meant that life was no longer worth the living.
It seemed almost too terrible to be true. Mark Mallory pinched himself to make sure he was alive; that all this dream had really happened, that he really was beyond hope.
And then suddenly the police captain gave vent to a startled exclamation and whacked his knee.
“Desbrosses Street!” he roared to the startled driver, and an instant later the carriage was speeding away down along the wharves.
Where they were going, or why, none of them had the least idea, except the captain; and he said nothing. The trip was a short one, only three or four blocks. At the end of it he sprang from the carriage.
“Quick, quick!” he cried, and made a dash for one of the piers.
The rest did not need to be urged to follow. They beat the captain there in their haste. For they saw then where he was going; a police tug was lying at the wharf.
“Quick!” roared the captain, leaping aboard. “Follow that ferry!”
And half a minute later the engines of the tug were throbbing and the tug was sweeping out into the river.
A few minutes after that there were three tough-looking tramps contentedly dozing in a Pullman car of the West Shore express.