"Beat the general!" echoed the other. "By George, I'll help! I'm glad of it. I——"
Indian heard no more. Quietly he had arisen from the tent floor, glancing about like a serpent rearing his glittering head from the grass. He arose; he crept to the tent door; and a moment later he was striding down the street as fast as his little legs could carry him.
So that was the plot! Those wicked and reckless cadets who had hazed him so much were now going to beat the general! The general could, of course, mean only one general, the great general. There was no general at West Point but Major General Miles.
Indian never once stopped until he was well out of camp, out of the enemies' hands. A man with so mighty a secret as that could afford to take no risks; he must lurk in the shadows until he saw his chance to reveal the whole daring conspiracy. Visions rose up before his delighted mind, visions of himself a hero like Mark, congratulated by all, even made a yearling as the cadets had hinted. Indian even imagined himself already as hazing the rest of the plebes.
These thoughts in his mind, he was suddenly startled by seeing two yearlings coming near. Were they after him? Indian trembled. Nearer and nearer. No, they had passed him. And then, once more, he heard the words:
"Yes, yes! We're going to beat the general!"
"What! Heavens, suppose some one should find it out."
That settled it. Indian sprang up boldly and strode away, determination in his very waddle. He knew! And he would tell!
At that moment Indian saw Cadet Fischer crossing the parade ground. Surely, thought Indian, so high and responsible an officer as this had nothing to do with the plot! Why not tell him? And so at him Indian made a dash.
"Mr. Fischer! Oh, Captain Fischer!"