Then, to the still greater surprise of the cadet captain—who wasn't used to Texas' ways—the plebe dragged him over to the corner of the tent and whispered in a trembling, excited voice.
"Don't you tell a soul, naow, not a soul. S-sh! Do you want to turn highwayman?"
Fischer stared at the other in alarm.
"Turn highwayman!" he echoed.
"Yes," whispered Texas. "Don't you know what a highwayman is? He's a man what robs folks at night?"
Fischer gasped and looked dumfounded. The day that Texas had gone on his "spree" and tried to wreck West Point he had been reported by the surgeon on the sick list for "temporary mental aberration due to the heat."
"This is an awfully hot day," thought Fischer. "I hope to gracious he hasn't got any guns!"
Texas waited a moment longer, and then he went on to whisper. He had lots to say, and one would have been interested to observe its effect upon the officer. His look of consternation faded; one of interest, doubt, and then finally of delight replaced it. And by the time the other was through he had forgotten the lad was a plebe. He seized his hand and slapped him upon the back.
"By George!" he cried. "I'll do it! It's a slim chance, slim as thunder, but if it'll clear Mark Mallory I'll try it if it costs me my chevrons!"
At which Texas gave vent to a whoop that awoke the echoes of the Highlands.