"Well, not that I know of, bah Jove—but come to think of it, my second cousin was a Sturtevant and she married one of the De Smythes, if that's who you're thinking of."
"I guess that's it," said Mark, solemnly. "Let it go at that, anyway. But what have the Sturtevants, the Sturtevants of New York, got to do with a West Point hop?"
"It's simply that this cousin of mine, ye know, has a friend up here, a first class man, an adjutant or sergeant quartermaster, or some such deuced animal, I forget just what, bah Jove! Anyway, I've an idea he got me the invitation."
Mark let himself down to the ground on his back and lay there for a few moments after his friend's "explanation," while he thought over it and incidentally kicked a tree trunk for exercise. Chauncey waited anxiously, wondering what sort of an effect his announcement of his influential friends would have upon Mark.
"Those yearlings," began the latter at last, in a meditative, half soliloquizing tone, "have never yet lost an opportunity to annoy us."
"What's this got to do with the hop, bah Jove?" interrupted Chauncey.
"Lots. It's simply this. You have been just as fresh as any of us, Chauncey. With all your aristocratic blood, ye know. I saw you nearly whip half a dozen of them one day when they wouldn't stop hazing Indian."
"I didn't whip them, bah Jove," began Chauncey, modestly.
"Well, anyhow, they couldn't whip you, and so it was all the same. The point is that they have never done anything to be revenged for the insult. I have an idea that this may be an attempt."
"This!" echoed the other in surprise. "Pray how?"