At first he could hardly understand what was happening. He pulled and tugged with all his might. But it did no good; his hand was fast. And in an instant the horrible truth flashed over him—Mallory—he had polished the gun with glue!
Every spectator on the grounds was staring at Gus. As for him, he was still tugging and wrestling, blushing, and gasping with rage. Finally he saw that his efforts were useless, and he gave it up in despair; he stood silent and helpless, gazing into space.
Lieutenant Ross was the name of tac in command, and he was noted for being a crank. He gave no more orders, of course, but stood and stared at the offending cadet in horror and indignation, while the cadets, who did not dare to look, but who knew that something was "up," waited and wondered.
How long this suspense and torture would last no one could tell; the tac broke in at last.
"Mr. Murray!" he demanded. "What is the matter?"
"My gun!" stammered Murray. "I—I—why—that is——"
"Mr. Murray, leave the ranks!"
Blushing scarlet, the yearling obeyed, conscious of the fact that hundreds of eyes were upon him. He strode furiously down the line and once clear, set out on a run for camp, almost ready to cry with vexation. He reached his tent, rushed in, tore off his glove, and hurled his musket into the corner. And then he stood in the middle of his tent and clinched his fists until his nails cut the palms of his hands.
"By Heaven!" he cried, "I'll be revenged on that plebe if I have to kill him to do it!"
He stayed in his tent, nursing his wrath and resentment, until the battalion marched back to camp. And he refused to come out then; his classmates who inquired as to what was the matter received angry replies for their pains. And when the corps marched down to supper Murray still sat where he was. He didn't want any supper.