A MYSTERIOUS CRY

The football season opened auspiciously for Annapolis. About fifty midshipmen were members of the football squad; these were excused from drills except on two afternoons of the week. Of those selected to play in regular games all were seasoned players, and except Bligh, all had played on the Naval Academy team the previous year. And so Stonewell and Robert and others were quite hopeful.

The head coach was Professor Danton, the field coach Gates, a famous old Yale player.

After several hard games on successive Wednesdays and Saturdays Stonewell was called into special consultation by Danton and Gates.

"Stonewell," began Gates, "I've been watching our team, and I'm convinced we have a fine lot of men here; not only good football players but real trustworthy chaps, men who will keep their promise, whose word can be depended upon."

"We don't want any other kind," replied Stonewell, thinking by Gates' manner that there was something in the wind.

"I've been trying to size up each man's character," continued Gates, "and I've decided to put personal trust in every one of them. But I will exact an individual promise of secrecy from every member of the squad for something I'm going to give them. The matter is this: I have devised a forward pass which if it isn't expected and is properly executed is practically certain to bring a touch-down to the team that works it. I've sent it to Yale, where it has been tried out in secret practice, and the people there are wild over it. I've told them I wanted to give it to the midshipmen. They don't like that idea, but it's my own play, and I can do so if I wish to. They've asked me, if I give it to the midshipmen, to take every precaution for secrecy and not to use it until after Yale plays Harvard. Annapolis plays West Point the same day that Yale meets Harvard, and you could work the trick against the soldiers. It's a beauty. Now what do you say, Stonewell?"

"We will most certainly agree to secrecy," replied Stonewell, much impressed. "I will get the individual promise you require from every member of the squad to observe entire secrecy about this play, and we'll never practice it except in secret practice and will never play it in a game until we meet West Point. Is that what you require?"

"Yes; I'll give it to you. We'll suppose our men have come down the field and are within an easy place-kick of the goal; we'll then make all preparations apparently for a goal from the field, and turn the play into a forward pass. We'll station our men as follows——" and a lot of technical football talk followed.

Stonewell was delighted. "By George," he said, "that's great! We'll work that on Franklin Field, and we'll certainly make the 'Army blue.' We'll try it to-morrow afternoon. I'll let only the first team know of it and get your required promise from them, and we'll work it on the unsuspecting second team; we'll have everybody, officers and all, kept away."

"Secret practice" for the football squad was ordered for the next day; at the beginning of the practice the first and second teams were ordered at first to keep in different parts of the field.

"What's up?" queried Harry Blunt, the ambitious quarter-back of the second team, to a group of players about him. "One would think the Only Stonewell had something up his sleeve. Come along, fellows; if we keep up our work of yesterday this team will be the first team before long."

After half an hour's practice the two teams were called together for a scrimmage. Bucking the line, running around the ends and punting were employed until the ball was fifteen yards from the second team's goal and in the possession of the first team. Then quarter-back Bligh gave the regular signal for a goal from the field. The second team knew, of course, the first team's signals, but it did not know that an apparent stumbling in the numbers he called out was a signal that the Gates forward pass was now to be played.

The first team players took their places for a goal from the field, Stonewell, as usual, dropping back, and before the second team players knew what had happened Robert Drake was sitting on the ball between the goal posts.

Everybody was crazy with delight. One would have imagined West Point had been scored upon. The play had worked perfectly. The squad was now all gathered together and was talked to by Gates and Stonewell; it was evident that Gates was well satisfied that his confidence in the midshipmen was not misplaced.

In the next few weeks this play was repeatedly practiced, and Gates was satisfied that if the midshipmen had the opportunity they would play it successfully on the day of the great West Point game.

It was Stonewell's purpose to develop the team as a whole, not individual star players. As right end Robert became famous among midshipmen for getting down the field promptly under kicks, and for tackling and downing in his tracks the opposing player who caught the ball. The two finds of the season were Bligh and Farnum. The former knew the game and played with intelligent skill. As quarter-back his position was most important and at different critical moments he ran the team with unerring judgment.

Farnum played with desperate valor. His tackling was fierce, and in running with the ball and interfering when one of his own side had it he took every chance. His impetuosity brought him into prominence as a sure ground gainer. In close places the ball was generally given to Stonewell. There was something peculiarly invigorating in Stonewell's personality. When his signal was made there was a penetrating intensity that affected every Annapolis player. The danger was in working him too much.

One Saturday early in November, Annapolis was matched against Bucknell. Bucknell had always been a formidable antagonist of the midshipmen; the year previous it had defeated them. Up to now Annapolis had not lost a game, and the midshipmen were particularly anxious to defeat Bucknell, which on this occasion had brought a stalwart lot of players. They were strong, heavy, and confident. Before the game Stonewell called Farnum aside and said: "Now, old chap, be a little careful of yourself. You are bound to get badly hurt at the rate you are going, and we want you to save yourself for the West Point game. You're going to be given the ball a good deal to-day; Bob Drake is a bit stale, and my knee is bothering me. Now look out for yourself."

"I'll try to remember, Stone," was the reply; "but when I get started I'm not apt to think of anything but the game. But I'll try to be careful."

Bucknell kicked off and Drake caught the ball. He was down the field with a tremendous start, dodging one player, smashing by another, making twenty-five yards before he was downed.

Bligh believed in quick action. The Annapolis team was lined up immediately and in a second the ball was in play. Farnum banged through the line between guard and tackle, making over fifteen yards for Annapolis.

"Take it easy, Farnum," cautioned Stonewell. In an instant Farnum had the ball again and was around the end and speeding for Bucknell's goal. Ten yards before he got there he was brought to earth with terrific violence, and he lay there still and limp.

On the side lines, leading the cheering, Glassfell was executing all kinds of crazy antics; the midshipmen on the bleachers, full of joy, shouted themselves hoarse. But poor Farnum lay there unheeded, entirely unconscious. And in vain did the appreciative midshipmen shout: "Farnum! Farnum! Farnum!" for that young man was carried off the field on a stretcher without regaining consciousness.

Two more plays, Stonewell carrying the ball, brought a touch-down to Annapolis and Stonewell kicked a goal. This was the only scoring done during the game. In vain did each team hurl itself against the other; all for nothing did prodigies of violence occur. When time was finally called the score stood Annapolis 6, Bucknell 0.

And then thoughts turned to Farnum, now in the Academy sick quarters. When questioned Surgeon Pickron looked grave and said, "Mr. Farnum has had a terrible blow on the head—he has had many recurring spasms ever since—I regard his condition as very serious."

Such news travels fast, and on Saturday night the whole Academy, officers and midshipmen, were much perturbed. Sunday brought no change for the better and Surgeon Pickron advised an operation. Farnum had not regained consciousness. Surgeon Welton, who was in command of the hospital, insisted on delaying, against Dr. Pickron's advice, and on Monday morning everybody was much cheered up by hearing that Farnum's spasms had ceased and that he had come to himself. It was decided not to perform the operation, though Dr. Pickron believed that a clot of blood had formed and that Farnum's skull should be trephined.

From now on Farnum continued to improve and in two weeks he was discharged from sick quarters and sent back to Bancroft Hall, though it was ordered that he was to play no more football. But it was not the same Farnum. In place of the cheery, wideawake youth who had battled so valiantly against Bucknell, was a slow-moving, hesitating young man. He seemed afraid. The slightest unexpected noise or untoward incident seemed to startle him, sometimes to frighten him badly. "I can't help it, Bob," he said one time, with half a laugh and half a sob; "it's my nerves, I suppose; I'm sure there's something wrong with me; I know I'm acting like a baby, and I guess it will pass after a while; but I can't help it, I can't help it," and then Farnum broke down.

Stonewell, Robert and some of the others had long talks with him. They were all drawn to him and were much concerned. One of Farnum's peculiarities was that he didn't dare to go out at night. The entire first class were now devoted to him. His popularity had come late in his midshipman career, but it was now strong and abiding. And his sufferings were so acute and so constant that he had the warm sympathy of all.

And Academy life went on apace, and Academy life at this period of the year is mostly concerned with football. True, there are study hours and recitations; long hard lessons must be read over and officers must hear recitations; formations must be attended, drills undergone, and examinations prepared for. This football spirit infected the officers as it did midshipmen. Football was the one topic of conversation, the one purpose in life during this epoch, and those that didn't play shouted vociferous advice, admonition and encouragement from the bleachers.

One Friday night in the middle of November, at five minutes before ten, the bugles in Bancroft Hall rang out their customary discordant warnings that all midshipmen were to repair to their rooms immediately. In five minutes the midshipmen were to be in bed and all lights out. And instantly hundreds of midshipmen rushed through the corridors to get to their own rooms; for they are given the time from nine-thirty, the end of their study period, to ten for visiting.

On this Friday night the midshipmen ran to their rooms as usual at the warning signal. Until the last minute of the allowed time there was to be heard the scurrying of hurried feet resounding through the corridors and a babble of shouting and laughter. Eight hundred midshipmen seemed to have something to say that couldn't keep till the morrow.

Ten o'clock came, and with it complete silence save for the measured tread of cadet officers going from room to room to see the occupants thereof were all in bed. And now sounded forth the clock, with its ominous tick-tock, as though it had been silent all day, and there came the oppressive silence which reigns each night after ten o'clock. So it was this Friday night. Four bells, indicating ten o'clock, were struck, the lights were put out and a solemn hush was upon the eight hundred occupants of Bancroft Hall.

And then, in the stillness of the night, there arose an awful heart-terrifying shriek. It was plainly in the armory wing and evidently from one of the upper floors. Startled, affrighted midshipmen jumped from their beds and stood in listening attitudes. Again came a cry that permeated every nook and corner of the armory wing, and hundreds of midshipmen listening with painful intensity plainly heard the words:

"Help, help, Stonewell, help; I'm going down, going down, down." The tones were those of one in fearful agony. The midshipmen jumped to the doors of their rooms and into the corridors, all with unspeakable dread in their hearts, waiting for a leader to direct their actions.

Stonewell, rooming on the first floor, dashed into the corridor, followed by Drake.

"Where's that cry?" he demanded in strident tones.

"The top floor, sir," cried little Mr. Mumma, with trembling voice. Up the stairway bounded Stonewell and Robert.

Hardly had this occurred when the cry was again heard. It seemed now to be in the corridor of the third floor, which by this time Stonewell had reached. Stonewell stood perplexed and worried; in a second the fearful scream was again heard, but now evidently from the floor below, the second floor. Stonewell ran to the stairway at one end of the corridor, followed by the other midshipman. "Where is that cry?" he again demanded of the startled midshipmen standing about, much bewildered.

"It was here a minute ago, right here, right here," replied Harry Blunt. "But what's the matter? what's happened?" he asked. Again they were silenced by the awful cry: "Help, help, Stonewell, save me!" which arose from the floor below. It was twice repeated, each time seeming farther away, and then it ceased entirely. By this time Stonewell and Robert had run down two flights to the ground floor. Midshipmen here had heard the frightful shrieks and many scared faces were to be seen.

"Turn out, everybody; get into ranks. Company officers, muster your companies," shouted Stonewell. "Pass the word to the upper floors, Bob," he called out. "Muster on the first and ground floors," and Robert was off in a flash.

"You have anticipated my orders, Mr. Stonewell," remarked the officer-in-charge. "Make a careful muster; we'll investigate; what do you think it was?"

"I can't imagine, sir; I'm entirely bewildered; the cry was undoubtedly heard at the top of the building, and it was heard later on each floor. I followed it down from the third floor. But nobody came down on the stairways, I'm certain of that, and the cry seemed near the centre of each floor, where no stairway leads down. If it wasn't that I believe everything on earth is explainable I would say it is uncanny."

While Stonewell and the officer-in-charge were talking Bancroft Hall had burst into life. The cries had ceased.

In going along the ground floor Stonewell came across Bligh, half supporting Farnum. The latter was shivering with unconcealed fright.

"What is it, Stonewell?" he half whispered. "Oh, what has happened? Hasn't something dreadful occurred?"

Farnum had the appearance of a sick man. He was agitated in manner, and seemed weak and trembled; without Bligh's assistance he would have fallen.

"Just a joke, old chap," replied Stonewell kindly; "nothing to worry about; but you're sick, I can see that. Man, you have a raging fever!"

"Get to your company, Bligh; I'll take care of Farnum."

Stonewell reported Farnum as being sick, and received permission to take him to sick quarters, at some distance from Bancroft Hall.

The result of the muster was that Bligh and Farnum were reported as not being present but the absence of both was explained, Farnum being sick and Bligh being with him when the latter's company was mustered.

The midshipmen, tremendously interested and impressed, were now waiting to be dismissed. All sorts of conjectures were ventured to explain the mystery, and some had superstitious fears in their hearts. Mr. Henry Bligh listened with a queer expression to a great many theories of this remarkable episode, but offered none himself. But after he was dismissed he chuckled and laughed, being apparently much pleased with something.