"When?" cried Mark.
"To-morrow morning first thing, b'gee!"
Texas had escaped by this time and was dancing about once more. And the rest of the Seven were about ready to join him. This was the greatest bit of excitement of all. The most B. J. thing they had ever done, defying the whole first class and going out of cadet limits besides. There never were seven lads more full of fun than these boys; and never had they seen a chance for quite so much fun as in this daring venture.
The seven adjourned for dinner soon after that. As they "fell in" on the company street it was evident to Mark that the story of his bold defiance, his desperate stroke, was all about the place even then. It was known to the first class, and to the yearling enemies, and even to the plebes, who stared at him in awe and wondered where on earth he had gotten the "nerve" to dare to do what he had. For Mark Mallory stood pledged by his defiance to fight the whole corps of cadets.
He bore his notoriety easily; he returned the stares of his enemies with cool and merry indifference, and as he cleaned his musket and turned out for drill, or made the dust about the camp fly while on "police duty," there was nothing about him to lead any one to suspect that he was, of all West Point's plebes and even cadets, the most conspicuous, the most talked of.
The story spread so far that it reached the ears of a certain very dear friend of his. An orderly handed him a note late that afternoon; he knew the handwriting well by this time and he opened the letter and read it hastily:
"Dear Mr. Mallory: Please come over to the hotel as soon as you can. I have some important news for the Seven, and for you particularly.
"Your friend,
"Grace Fuller."
Mark went, wondering what could be "up," and he found that it was about that same all-important affair that Grace wanted to see him.