It was early in the morning, and the plebes were gathered about Mark’s tent, awaiting the signal for inspection. There were the members of the famous Banded Seven.
That crowd, so it appeared, was not the only crowd that was gathered in the streets of Camp Lookout that morning, for the purpose of discussing things. In fact, a stranger passing through the place might have thought it a sewing school, a town pump or an afternoon tea. These places are quoted as the ones where gossiping is most likely to occur. It seemed as if every cadet in the camp knew no better occupation in life than talking—evidently something had happened to create excitement among the lads.
“We ought to thank our stars we got out of the scrape as we did,” one of them added. “Do you suppose any of the cadets have an idea that we had anything to do with the affair?”
“I don’t,” said Mark. “That is, of course, excepting Bull Harris, and his friends among the third classmen. I overheard one of the first class talking of it a while ago.”
“What did he say?” asked one, eagerly.
“He said,” answered Mark, “that he didn’t know what to make of the matter. All he knew was that a frightful lot of yelling had awakened the camp during the night, and that when Lieutenant Allen, the tactical officer in command, jumped up to find out what was wrong he discovered that some one had stolen his uniform. Of course he couldn’t come out without it, and he raged and stormed about for nearly five minutes inside. Then he discovered his clothes lying outside of his tent. When he came out and ordered a roll call he found everybody in and nothing wrong.”
“And what does he suppose was the cause of his uniform being mislaid?”
“He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know whether it was a prank of some kind or carelessness on his part. Isn’t that a rich joke?”
“Betcher life, b’gee!”
The reader does not need to be told that that observation came from Dewey.