There is no need of describing the sensations which that same clang produced upon the creatures. It has all been described in the case of the Banded Seven; it was just the same here, only aggravated by a feeling of baffled rage. It was Bull Harris’ death knell, the clang of that gate.
They were put in the same cell, but they were tied securely, and so there was no danger of their escaping “again.” Having seen to this, the party went out, paying not the least heed to Bull’s frenzied entreaties to send for the sheriff. It was natural that a captured lunatic should rave and foam at the mouth a little.
Darkness and silence having fallen upon the jail the situation became clear at last to the wretched captives. They were tied hand and foot behind prison bars, it lacking then perhaps an hour and a half of reveille—and dismissal. They had no watch to let them see the time, which made the situation all the more agonizing. If the sheriff came in time—though there was not the least reason for supposing he would—they might get out. If he didn’t—Bull ground his teeth with rage when he thought of it.
It was perfectly clear to the yearlings how the former occupants of the cell had gotten out; the broken bar told the story. But the prisoners scarcely noticed that, so wild were they with excitement and suspense and dread.
The time sped on. Nobody knew how much of it, and the four kept their brains busy disputing with each other, some vowing that it was an hour, some a half. It seemed as if Father Time were taking an interest in punishing these villains, for he went with agonizing slowness. Sometimes a minute may seem an age. After all, time is only relative; every man has his own time, depending upon the swiftness with which ideas are passing through his mind.
It was thus a very long period, that hour and a half. The four knew not, as the end came near, whether it were one hour that had passed or six. And they had almost given up hope and become resigned, when suddenly there came a step that made their hearts leap up and begin to pound.
The outer door opened; then the door to their cell. A figure strode in. It was the sheriff!
A perfect pandemonium resulted. It took the official but a moment to recognize that these were not the lunatics. From their excited and frenzied pleadings he managed to make out the story of their misfortune, their capture by the real lunatics. Also he made out that they were in a simply agonizing hurry to get out, to go somewhere.
He knew that he had no right to hold them. He stepped forward and cut them loose, and showed them to the door. An instant later four figures were dashing up the street toward West Point at a speed that would have done credit to an antelope. This was a go-as-you-please race, each man for himself.
They sped on, past the boundary of cadet limits, the officers’ houses, the mess hall. They were careless of consequences, making no effort to hide from any one. Time was too precious. A single glance at the parade ground ahead showed them that the gun had not yet sounded, that still there was hope. Their pace grew faster still at that.