“There’s our old friend, ’Echo’ Rogers,” said he.
The rest were tickled by that nickname, for they broke into a laugh, in which even Dewey joined. The cadet himself, a tall, heavily built yearling, was standing at attention—“eyes to the front—chest out—” and so on. But he heard the remark and an angry flush swept over his face.
“Echo doesn’t like his name,” observed Mark, as the party went on down the company street. “You could tell that, anyhow, from the fact that he and his crowd haven’t told a soul about their adventures.”
“I wish I knew about that mystery,” put in Dewey. “B’gee, there’s something the matter up at that cave. The yearlings have kept pretty mum.”
“We’ll find out to-night,” muttered Texas. “That is, if you fellers don’t get scared afore that an’ go back on our bargain. Haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“I haven’t,” laughed Mark, an assurance which the others were just as prompt to give.
“An’ you ain’t afraid, be you?” Texas added.
“N-n-no!” answered Indian, dubiously. “I—I—— I’m not.”
What had caused the flight from the cave the plebes had not the slightest idea. They had walked home somewhat frightened and subdued, and sought out the yearlings, who had fled so wildly back to camp. The latter had, strangely enough, refused to answer any questions. They had turned angrily away upon the slightest mention of the matter, and what was still more strange, they had even gone to the length of refusing to explain to the authorities how their clothing had been torn or how Rogers had gotten the severe cut which he bore on his shoulder.
Naturally, this behavior had puzzled the plebes. It puzzled them still, and made them think that there was some terrible mystery back of the matter, some mystery connected with that dark and uncanny cavern. It was “their” cavern, too, and they didn’t relish the idea of having any secret danger to make them afraid to go near it.