Two more surprised cadets than the two who uttered this last exclamation it would be hard to imagine. They had been sitting on a bench near Trophy Point, and one of them had been carelessly tinkling a mandolin. He had dropped the instrument and leaped to his feet. Now he was staring with open mouth at the new arrival, who bore the extraordinary tidings.
"Mallory given up! Gus Murray, what on earth do you mean?"
The three were yearlings, all of them. The crowd which has usually been designated in these stories as "Bull Harris' gang." There was Gus Murray, the new arrival, a low, brutal-looking chap. There was the sickly and disagreeable "Merry" Vance. And there was the little fellow "Baby" Edwards, the meanest of them all.
"You surely can't mean," cried Vance, "that Mallory has consented to allow the fellows to haze him?"
"Better than that even," chuckled Murray. "Better than that!"
"For Heaven's sake," gasped the other, "sit down and tell us what you do mean. What is the use of talking riddles?"
Thus enjoined, Gus Murray explained; he was nothing loath to tell the tale.
"I'll tell you how it was," he said. "I was never more astounded in my life. I saw that plebe strolling down the street a while ago, holding his head high as ever and looking as if he owned the place."
"Confound him!" muttered Vance.
"You know," the other continued, "he's never done any work like the rest of the plebes. Usually we yearlings make them fix our tents and guns, and carry water, and so on. Mallory never has, and of course nobody's succeeded in making him. I thought I'd guy him a little just now and see how he'd take it. So I stopped and said, 'See here, plebe. Let me show you how to clean a gun.'"