"I can't help it," moaned Indian. "They know! L-look!"
With trembling finger he pointed across the street to where in the shadow of the sally port of the academy stood a group of hilarious yearlings, fully half the class, wild with glee. The general shook his head as he looked, and poor Indian got out his handkerchief as a precaution.
"Too bad!" said the former. "Too bad, I declare! We'll have to turn that joke on them somehow or other. Let me see. Let me see. How would you like it for me to help you get square, as you boys say?"
Indian gazed up at the stalwart and kindly form confidingly; he was all smiles in a moment.
"I'll tell you," said the general at last, "you and I'll take a walk. And when they see you with me, they'll be sorry they sent you. Come on."
He took the arm of the delighted Indian, who was scarcely able to realize the extent of his good fortune.
"You'll excuse me a short while, gentlemen," said General Miles to his military staff. "I'll return shortly. And now," to Indian, "where shall we go? I guess I'll let you show me about camp."
And sure enough, pinching himself to make sure if he really were awake, Indian, on the arm of the mighty guest of West Point, commander of Uncle Sam's whole army, marched away up the road past the parade ground and all through Camp McPherson.
The general was enjoying the joke hugely, but he affected not to notice it, and plied the plebe with questions.
Why did the yearlings haze him so much? Was he B. J.? Oh, it was because he was a friend of Mark Mallory's, was it! General Miles had heard of Mark Mallory. He was the plebe who had saved the life of the general's friend, Judge Fuller's daughter. A beautiful girl that! And a splendid act! Indian had seen it, had he? Colonel Harvey had described it to the general. The general would like to meet Mark Mallory. No, he was not joking; he really would. Mr. Mallory was in hospital, was he? Too bad! Had been too B. J., had he? The general liked B. J. plebes. He hoped Mark was not badly hurt. And——