"West Point, N. Y.,
"July 6, 18—."
That was all, except for the list of "hop managers" below. But such as it was, it was enough to cause Mark no end of perplexity.
"A plebe invited to the hop," he muttered. "I can hardly believe it yet. There must be some mistake surely. Why, man, no plebe has ever danced at a hop in all West Point's history. They scarcely know there are such things. Just think of it once—we miserable beasts who hardly dare raise our heads, and who have to obey everyone on earth!"
"We've raised our heads pretty well, bah Jove," drawled the other. "And we've shown ourselves a deuced bit livelier than the yearlings, don't ye know."
"Yes, but we've only done that by force. We've licked them and outwitted them at every turn, something no plebes have ever dared to do before. But simply because we've made them recognize our rights that way is no reason why they should ask one of us to a hop."
"No," responded Chauncey, "it isn't. But I know what is."
"What?"
"I've a cousin in New York by the name of Sturtevant—deuced aristocratic folks are the Sturtevants! Ever hear of the Sturtevants of New York?"
"Er—yes," responded Mark, that same sly look in his eyes again. "I've heard of them very often. They are related to the Smiths, aren't they?"