It was the evening of the following day, and the scene was Highland Falls. It was about twelve o’clock at night, to be more exact as to time; as to place, the scene was a low tavern on the roadside.
This hour was long after the time that cadets are supposed to be in their tents asleep, but as we have seen, cadets do not always do as they are supposed to. It is safe to say that in spite of all the talk about the severity of West Point discipline, if the commandant of cadets should take it into his head to wander through Camp McPherson every night for a week running, he would find some things to surprise him. He might not find any geological chemists hard at work, but he might find a small game of some sort going on on the sly, and he’d be sure to find a surreptitious banquet or two. He might also see occasional parties steal past an obliging sentry who was looking the other way. It is probable, however, that none of this would surprise him very much, for he did it all himself in his day.
There are always bolder and more reckless spirits who are ever ready for such a lark, enjoying it in proportion to the risk they run. There are always some among these who think it manly to drink and smoke, and frequent low places; it is upon one of these latter assemblages that we are about to look in. We must not mind a rather unpleasant odor of bad tobacco, or a still more unpleasant odor of bad liquor.
It is quite needless to say that one of the crowd was Bull Harris; it would be hard to find a crowd of cadets amusing themselves as these were without Bull among them. This tavern was the regular resort of him and his “gang” on occasions when they visited Highland Falls. It has not been mentioned before, because the less said about such places the better.
Bull liked this place for many reasons. It was quiet, and there was nobody to disturb them. Then, too, the proprietor, a fat Irishman, known as “Jake,” was a man who told no secrets and minded his own business, thus keeping an ideal place for a crowd of young “gentlemen” to come for a lark. Bull was there to-night, and what was more important, he was acting as host. Bull was “blowing off” his friends.
There was first, his Cousin Chandler, whom we know; then there was Gus Murray, who needs but little introduction. As an ally and worshiper of Bull and a malignant enemy of Mark Mallory’s, Gus Murray yielded to no one, with the possible exception of Merry Vance, the shallow and sour-faced youth on his right. The cause of Merry’s pessimistic complexion we once guessed to be indigestion; inasmuch as he was just then pouring down his third dose of bad brandy a revision of this surmise will be allowed. To complete the party, there was one more, a very small one, our young friend, Baby Edwards, a sweet-tempered little sneak who had not even manliness enough to be vicious.
When we peered in the party was in full swing. Baby Edwards had half gone to sleep, having drunk two glasses of beer. Bull had just completed for the third time a graphic description of how that Mallory had been duped, a story which was a never-failing source of interest and hilarity to the rest, who were whacking their glasses on the table and cheering merrily, in fact, so merrily that the cautious proprietor was forced to come to the door and protest.
“How much did you say it was worth?” demanded Vance, after the man had gone away again.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” chuckled Bull. “Fifty thousand if a cent. Fill ’em up, boys. Chandler and I calculated it weighed two hundred pounds. Whoop!”
Merry’s eyes glistened feverishly as he listened, whether from brandy or from what he heard it would be hard to say.