There is no tent room in West Point for the man who likes to lie in bed and doze for half an hour in the morning; cadets have five minutes to dress in, and they have to be out in the company street lined up for roll call at the end of that time. And there is no danger of their failing about it, either. They tell a good story up there about one fond mother who introduced her young hopeful, a soon-to-be plebe, to the commandant of cadets, and hoped that they wouldn’t have any trouble getting “Montmorency dear” up in the morning; they never could get him up at home.
But to return to the four A Company plebes who were meanwhile flinging on their clothes and performing their hasty toilets.
The lad who propounded the question was Mark, as said before. The one who answered it was Jeremiah Powers, and Texas vowed he liked being rich mighty well. He got no chance to explain why or wherefore, however, for by that time he was outside of the tent, and the resplendent cadet officer was giving his stentorian order:
“’Tenshun, company!”
At which signal the merry groups of cadets changed into an immovable line of figures stiff as ramrods.
The plebes had come back to camp late last night, or rather early this same morning, scarcely able to realize what had happened. They were still striving to realize it all as they sat whispering to each other in mess hall. They were rich, all of them. How much they had none of them had any idea. The learned Parson had informed them—and he didn’t have to go to a book to find it out, either, that a pound of gold is worth two hundred and fifty dollars. Allowing two hundred pounds to that box, which was a modest guess indeed, left some seven thousand dollars to each of them, a truly enormous fortune for a boy, especially a West Point plebe who is supposed to have no use for money at all.
Cadets do their purchasing on “check-book,” as it is called, and their bills are deducted from their salaries. And though they do smuggle in some contraband bills occasionally they have no way of making use of large sums. This was the problem the Banded Seven were discussing through the meal and while they were busily sprucing up their tents for “Sunday morning inspection.”
Texas was for quitting “the ole place” at a jump and making for the plains where a fellow could have a little fun when he wanted to. The fact that he had signed an “engagement for service,” or any such trifle as that, made no difference to him, and in fact there is little doubt that he would have skipped that morning had it not been for one fact—he couldn’t leave Mark.
“Doggone his boots!” growled Texas, “ef he had any nerve he’d come along! But ef he won’t, I s’pose I got to let that air money lie idle.”
After which disconsolate observation Texas fell to polishing the mirror that hung on his tent pole and said nothing more.