Texas chuckled gleefully at the information.
“Make believe I ain’t glad!” said he. “We won’t have that air ole yearlin’ corporal a-comin’ in to boss us an’ raise a rumpus ’cause there’s dust on a feller’s lookin’-glass and freckles on his nose. Doggone them yearlin’s’ boots!”
“And, b’gee,” put in Dewey, the reconteur of the party, “B’gee, we’ll have army rations—hard-tack and water for ten days.”
“Bless my soul!” gasped the fat and rosy Indian. No more terrible news on earth could have been given to Indian than that. “Bless my soul!” he repeated. “What on earth shall I do? Hard-tack and water!”
“It is terrible,” observed Dewey, solemnly. “Why, they gave me better than that when I was in prison last time.”
Indian gazed at his friend in alarm. The others spoiled the joke, however, by laughing.
“You’re only fooling,” the fat boy observed, wisely. “I think that’s mean. Anyhow, I’m sure I shall starve.”
“It won’t be quite as bad as it’s painted,” Mark laughed, by way of consolation. “They’ll probably give us something better than tack.”
“And if they don’t, b’gee,” put in Dewey, “we can bite our finger nails.”
The plebes had plenty of time to do their joking that morning, for there was a long, dreary walk ahead of them. In fact, they marched steadily for between three and four hours, with but few halts for rest. One may readily believe that the cadets were glad when it was over.