"Anarchists," he repeated. "Dynamite! Why, what on earth?"
And then suddenly the whole thing flashed across him. It was another prank of the yearlings! And, what was worse, a thousand times worse, here was a sentry off his beat, in direct violation of his orders of all military law.
"Didn't you receive a command, sir," he demanded severely, "not to leave your post for any reason whatsoever? Don't you know that in time of war your offense would mean hanging?"
"Bless my soul, sir!" gasped the sorely perplexed plebe, frightful visions of gallows rising up before his bulging eyes. "Yes, sir—er—that is, no, sir—bless my soul! They're going to attack the place!"
The officer gazed at the lad incredulously for a moment; he thought the plebe was trying to fool him. But that look on Indian's face could not possibly be feigned; and the officer when he spoke again was a trifle more consoling.
"Don't you know, my boy," he said, "this is all a joke? It was not real dynamite."
"Not real dynamite!" cried the other in amazement. "Why, I saw it! It——"
"It was the yearlings trying to fool you," said the lieutenant.
"Yearlings trying to fool me!" echoed the other as if unable to grasp the meaning. "Why—er—bless my soul! Yearlings trying to fool me!"
The thought filtered through gradually, but it reached Indian's excited brain at last. The change it produced when it got there was marvelous to behold. The look of terror on his face vanished. So he had been fooled! So he had let the yearlings outwit him! Yearlings—his sworn enemies! And he a member of the Banded Seven at that! It was too awful to be true! It was——