The officer turned in surprise. Hailed by a common plebe.
"Mr. Fischer!" gasped Indian. "Bless my soul! I hear they're going to beat the general!"
"Yes," said the other. "In half an hour. But why——"
Good heavens, he knew it too! And like a flash, the frightened plebe wheeled and dashed away. There was only one resource left now. He would tell the general himself.
Across the parade ground dashed Indian, panting, gasping. Down by the headquarters building, he saw a group of horses standing. One charger he recognized instantly. The general was inside the building, and a moment later a group of officers appeared in the doorway. The handsome, commanding figure in front. Indian's heart bounded for joy; and then suddenly the amazed General Miles was greeted by a gasping, excited cadet in plebe fatigue uniform.
"General, oh, general! Bless my soul!"
The officer stared at him.
"A plot!" panted Indian. "Oh, general, please don't go"—puff—"near the camp—bless my soul! A plot!"
"A plot!" echoed the other. "A plot! What do you mean?"
"They're going to hurt you—bless my soul!"