"Look!"
That was all he said. Texas turned and glanced as he directed. There were two figures, clearly outlined in the moonlight, walking slowly up the road.
"It's they," whispered Fischer. "Shall we try it?"
And Texas gripped the two revolvers in his pocket and muttered, "Yes, we shall!"
The two came nearer and nearer. Out of the black shadows where they lay the cadets stared hard, watching them anxiously, waiting, panting with impatience and excitement. The strangers were slightly built, both of them, and young; Texas recognized one of them plainly. It was Benny Bartlett; that the other was the printer's boy, he took for granted. Then suddenly he noticed one of them stagger.
"That solves it," whispered Fischer. "They've been down to Cranston's getting drunk. The beasts!"
That last word cut Texas like a knife; he had been that way not a week ago himself. Texas was slowly learning the civilized view of drunkenness.
He forgot that in a few moments more, however. There was excitement, plenty of it, to fill his mind. The pair drew nearer still in the bright moonlight, and the time for their desperate deed was almost upon the cadets.
"For Heaven's sake don't let them get away," whispered Fischer. "If they cry out, make a break for camp, and I'll fix it."
That word was the last to be spoken; they lay in silence after that, listening to the others. Benny Bartlett, it appeared, was the more hilarious of the two, as such feeble hilarity goes. The other was trying hard to keep him quiet. The bushes that hid the cadets were right beside the road; and as Benny drew near they made out that he was trying to sing.