Dig—where’er its shadow falls!”
He never once turned to look back at that mysterious figure. If he had he might have been more surprised than ever. For the figure, hiding behind the bush, flung off its pack, stepped out of the old man’s rags, tore off a heavy false beard and wig and emerged——
Mark Mallory!
He whistled once, and a drum orderly, bribed for the occasion, ran out and hurried off with the things. And Mark rushed over and burst into a group of cadets that stood near.
“It worked! It worked!” he cried. “Oh, you should have seen how it took him in! And he’ll go as sure as we’re alive.”
And just then tattoo sounded and the six villains set out on a run for the camp.
Now Parson Stanard’s scholarly features were solemn enough under any circumstances; when there was anything to make them still more so he was a sight to behold. This was the case that evenings for the Parson, when he fell into line, was looking as if the future destiny of the universe were resting upon his shoulders, and his hilarious comrades were scarcely able to keep from bursting into laughter every time they glanced at him.
He was too busy with his own thoughts to notice them, however. He was so much occupied by speculations upon the mystery of that weird old man that he forgot for a moment to answer to his name at roll call, and had to be poked in the ribs to wake him up. Then the line melted away, and still solemn he marched into his tent and gathered his “wondering” fellow-devils about him.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I have a tale to tell you. I have this day, this very hour, met with an adventure, preternatural or supernatural, that exceeds the capacities of the human intellectualities to appreciate. Gentlemen, I am no believer in signs or auguries; but never did the oracle of Delphi or the Sibyl of Cumea promulgate a prophecy more extraordinary than one——”
“What on earth’s the matter?” cried the six, in obvious amazement.