“I am not to blame for it, fellows,” repeated Dick. “I did just as I was told to do, as nearly as I could. I know I did not succeed in stopping Don Gordon, and I don’t believe there is a boy in school who could have stopped him; but I did my best.”

“I hope you see now what you have done by your meddling,” exclaimed Tom, turning fiercely upon Duncan. “You are not at all to blame, Dick; only another time don’t take any private orders from anybody. We all run the same risk, and we ought all to have a word to say in regard to the manner in which things shall be conducted.”

“If Dick had stopped Gordon, as I told him to do, this thing never would have happened,” said Duncan, as soon as he had had time to collect his wits.

“There’s where I differ with you,” answered Tom. “The fact that Gordon wasn’t stopped does not in the least alter the case, so far as these bolts are concerned. If Don had been caught, the bolts would have been put on all the same, and, furthermore, you and I and all the rest of us would have had to stand a court-martial, for Don would have gone back on us as sure as you are a foot high. Dick ought to have let him pass.”

“And I would, too, if Clarence hadn’t told me to halt him,” exclaimed Dick.

“I know it. Duncan is the one we have to thank for the loss of many pleasant evenings we might have had this winter. We may as well throw away our keys, for they will be of no further use to us, now that the doors are to be bolted on the inside.”

“I don’t know why you should take on so about those bolts,” exclaimed Duncan, who began to think he had been scolded quite enough. “If we wanted to go to Cony’s to-night, what is there to hinder one of us from slipping up the stairs as soon as this man goes away, and drawing the bolts? Don’t throw away your key yet, Tom. It may come handy to you.”

Fisher, who was too angry to reply, turned on his heel and walked away. Before many hours had passed all the boys belonging to the “set” had heard about the bolts, and listened with no little indignation to the story of Clarence Duncan’s “meddling”—all except Don Gordon, who did not know that he was the victim of misplaced confidence. The fellows were careful to keep that from his ears for fear that he and Clarence would come to blows over it. Some of them, would have looked upon a fight between these two as an interesting spectacle; but they knew that it would be followed by a court of inquiry, during which some things they wanted to keep concealed would probably be brought to light. They had learned that it was not quite safe to trust their friend Duncan too far; and as for Don, he was a stranger, and there was no telling how he would act or what he would say when he was told that he could take his choice between answering such questions as were propounded to him, and being punished by expulsion from the school.

“That would bring him to his senses,” said Tom to some of his cronies who had gathered about him to talk over the situation. “He says he wouldn’t blow on us, but I don’t believe a word of it. There isn’t a boy in school who can stand defiant in the presence of the superintendent when he draws down those gray eyebrows of his and looks at a fellow as if he meant to pierce him through. Hallo! here comes Henderson with more news. He’s a bully little scout, even if he did come near getting us all into trouble by halting Don Gordon. What is it this time, Dick?”

“We may as well follow your advice and throw away our keys, for they are of no use to us now,” was Dick’s reply. “The officer of the day goes up and tries those doors and examines the new fastenings as regularly as he makes his rounds.”

“There!” exclaimed Tom, in great disgust. “You see what Duncan has brought us to by being so smart. No more pancakes for us.”

During the next few weeks nothing happened at the academy that is worthy of record. Duncan and Don Gordon had rather a lonely time of it, for the members of the “set” were not as cordial toward them as they used to be. They did not cut them entirely, for they did not think that would be quite safe; but they did not seek them out and associate with them as freely as they would if they had been on friendly terms. Duncan took it very much to heart, but Don did not seem to care. He studied and drilled with the rest, and having served the sentence that had been passed upon him for overstaying the time for which his leave of absence was granted, he began to feel and act more like himself. So did Bert, who soon began to count his friends by the score. They were true friends, too, and very unlike the boys who belonged to Tom Fisher’s crowd.

It was not long before the Plebes began to show the result of their regular and fatiguing drills. They became handy with their muskets, very proficient in company and battalion evolutions, and, finally, they were ordered to go on dress parade. This honor brought with it a duty from which they had thus far been exempt, that of standing guard.

Up to this time Cony Ryan had been deserted by all except a very few of his old patrons who sometimes passed an hour or two there of a Saturday afternoon; but they never came away without telling one another that they had not enjoyed themselves in the least—that their visits now were not at all like the jolly times they used to have when they crowded into his little parlor after creeping by the sentries. There had been none of that sort of work of late. The sight of the bolts the carpenter had put on the doors, and the increased vigilance of the officer of the day, had taken all the courage out of the bravest of them; at least so it seemed, for no one ever thought of running the guard now. Tom Fisher had almost forgotten that he had ever done such a thing, when one day he was approached by Don Gordon, who beckoned him off on one side.

“Look here, old fellow,” said Don, “you’ll dry up and blow away if you don’t have some excitement to put your blood in circulation. If you want to go down to Cony’s again, to-night is your time.”

“But the bolts!” exclaimed Tom, greatly surprised.

“The bolts won’t delay you five minutes,” replied Don, confidently. “I haven’t been idle during the last few days, and I have found a way to draw those bolts.”

“I could do it myself by going up the back stairs,” said Tom; “but the officer of the day would find it out the first time he made his round. Besides, we want to get in after we have gone out, and how would we throw those bolts back to their place when the door was closed behind us? Have you thought of that?”

“I have; but I can show you how it can be done easier than I can explain it to you. We can’t go up to my floor to operate, for Bert is standing guard there. Who’s on your floor?”

“Clarence Duncan.”

“Are you willing to trust him? I notice that you and he are not quite as thick as you used to be.”

“I’ve got to trust him whether I am willing or not. If I should go back on him entirely he would find a way to get me into a row that would send me down.”

“I don’t see how he could make anything by that. He is as deep in the mud as you are, and he would probably be sent down himself.”

“He wouldn’t care for that. He’ll go any lengths to injure a boy he hates. That’s his style. I have managed to keep up a show of friendship with him, and I know he will let you do anything you like on his floor. Come on.”

Clarence, who was seated in his chair reading a sensational story paper that one of the students had smuggled into the academy, nodded to Tom, returned Don’s salute, and would probably have paid no further attention to them had he not seen them turn into the hall that led to the fire-escape. This excited his curiosity and he arose and followed them.

“What are you going to do here?” he demanded.

“Gordon has discovered a way to open these doors,” replied Tom.

“Not from this side,” exclaimed Duncan.

“Yes, from this side,” said Don. “I have done it once, and I know I can do it again.”

Duncan, who believed that the feat could not possibly be accomplished, was unable to find words with which to express his surprise. He could only look bewildered. He took up a position in the main hall so that he could watch the stairs and guard against intrusion, and occasionally turned his eyes toward Don, whose proceedings he watched with the greatest interest.

Don’s first act was to produce his pocket-knife, with which he removed from the lower left-hand corner of the panel above the lock a round plug of wood, which fitted into a hole about half an inch in diameter. The top of the plug was painted white, like the door, and it filled the opening so accurately that the different officers of the day, who had probably looked at it a hundred times since it had been placed there, had never seen it. Don then pulled out of his pocket a short, crooked wire, one end of which was bent into the form of a hook and the other made into the shape of a ring. The hook he inserted into the hole in the panel, and a moment later the bolt was heard to slide from its socket.

“There you are,” said he, turning to Tom. “Now, take out your key and open the door.”

Tom obeyed, lost in wonder, and then he and Duncan stepped forward to see how Don’s invention worked. Simple as it was, it was admirably adapted to the purpose for which it was intended. “The only difficult thing about it,” said Don, in explanation, “is to get the hook around the knob of the bolt. That done, a simple turn of the wrist does the rest.”

“Gordon, you’re a good one,” exclaimed Tom. “You ought to be a Yankee.”

“This is a Yankee invention—at least a New England carpenter was the one who brought it to my notice,” answered Don, as Fisher closed and locked the door. “While he was doing some work on our plantation, our smoke-house and corn-cribs were robbed more than a dozen times. It seemed impossible for father to get locks that could not be picked or broken. The carpenter said he could put a stop to that business, and he did it by making some heavy wooden bolts, working on the same principle that this one does, only there were three or four knobs in them instead of one. Then he made a key, in shape something like this one of mine, and when we wanted to shut up for the night, all we had to do was to throw the bolts to their places, take out the wire, and the doors were fast. There was but one way to pass them, and that was to break them down; and if anybody had tried that he would have got himself into business directly, for I own some dogs that won’t permit any such doings.”

“Well, I’ve locked the door,” said Tom, when Don ceased speaking, “and now I’d like to see you throw that bolt back again. That’s important, you know.”

Don said he knew it. He thrust his wire through the opening again, and in a second more the bolt was shot into its socket. In order to make sure of it, Tom unlocked the door again and tried to open it; but the bolt held it fast. Don’s plan would work to perfection—Fisher and Duncan were sure of it.

“When did you find opportunity to do all this work?” asked the former.

“O, I did it at odd times when I thought there was the least danger of being caught; but, I tell you, I had a narrow escape once. I was working on this very door, and Tom, you were floor-guard at the time. You see there were a good many days when I couldn’t do anything at all on account of the guards, who I knew were not to be trusted. Well, I was working there in the dark and had just put the plug into the hole, when the bell rang. I had been obliged to do some whittling in order to make the plug fit to suit me, but I had been careful to put all the shavings on a piece of paper. If I had left them on the floor, and anybody had come in there with a lantern, he would have seen them, of course, and I should have had my work for nothing. When I heard the bell ring, I grabbed up that piece of paper and started for the stairs; but just then the back door opened, and who should come in but the officer of the day.”

Don’s auditors, who were listening with almost breathless interest, uttered ejaculations indicative of the greatest surprise and sympathy.

“I thought I was fairly cornered,” continued Don, “and at first I did not know what to do. I listened until I heard the officer go into the hall on the lower floor, and then I jerked off my boots and went up the next two flights of stairs, and up the ladder that leads to the scuttle; and there I sat on one of the topmost rounds until he tried all the doors and went down again.”

“Don, you’re a good one,” said Fisher, again. “But why didn’t you let us know what you were doing? Some of us might have helped you.”

“Well, you see, I expected to be caught, and I wanted to be able to say that I had received no assistance, and that nobody knew what I was up to. I couldn’t have told that story if I had taken you into my confidence; and I wouldn’t, either.”

We confess to a great liking for Don Gordon, and to a positive admiration of his moral as well as physical courage; but we are not blind to his failings. We have no patience with the way he acted at school after the solemn promises he had made his mother—they were all forgotten now—nor do we like the way he reasoned with himself. In his opinion there were different grades of lies. For example: If the superintendent had asked him if it were he who had been halted by Dick Henderson on a certain morning, he would have promptly replied that it was—the fear of punishment would not have made him deny it; and yet when he reached his room he told Bert a lie, although every word he uttered was the truth. By the answers he gave to Bert’s questions he led the latter to infer that the officer of the day was the only one who had come into that room, and we know that such was not the case. Don was not altogether consistent.

“Are all the doors that lead into the fire-escape fixed in this way?” asked Tom.

“No; only yours and mine. There was no need of bothering with the other two doors, for the boys in the first and second classes don’t run with our crowd.”

“That’s so,” said Duncan; “but I know that some of them go to Cony Ryan’s as regularly as we do.”

“They used to,” said Tom; “but I don’t think they have been there since these new fastenings were put on. What shall I do with this?” he added, as Don passed the wire over to him.

“Why, take it and use it.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I have another, but I shall not need it to-night.”

“Are you not going down to Cony’s with us?”

“I can’t. I am to relieve Henderson on post No. 8 at midnight; so you’ll have to go out and come in by Dick and me.”

That night everything passed off smoothly. The guards who held the floor when Tom and a chosen few went out and in, were accommodating; the bolt was easily worked by the aid of the wire Don had fashioned; the sentries on post No. 8 kept themselves out of sight; the pancakes and syrup were excellent; the night was passed in a most agreeable manner; and at three o’clock in the morning the guard-runners were all sleeping soundly in their beds, and no one was the wiser for what they had done. They missed Don (especially Tom Fisher, who had to pay his share of the bill from a very slender purse), whom they as well as Cony Ryan declared to be an honor to his class.

“It begins to look as though the old times were coming back again,” said Cony, as he sat by and saw his pancakes disappear before the attacks of his visitors, who ate as though they never had anything good served up to them at the academy. “I tell you the boys who went to school here years ago, some of whom are now men with boys of their own to look after, were a sharp lot. You couldn’t keep them in if they didn’t want to stay, and there was no use in trying. Of late you fellows haven’t done anything to be proud of; but perhaps this young Gordon will put some life into you.”

And he certainly did. Guard-running, in which Don took an active part, became of common occurrence, although the teachers never suspected it; and Cony Ryan slapped his well-lined pockets and blessed the day that brought Don Gordon to the Bridgeport academy. But the reckoning came at last, though long delayed, and Don, aided by an unexpected proceeding on the part of Tom Fisher, did something that raised him to a high place in the estimation of all the students, and knocked the “set” so high that it never came down again; at least it was never heard of afterward. It came about in this way:

Winter had passed, the snow had disappeared, the ice was all out of the river, the buds were starting on the maple trees, and those of the students who were ambitious to be something better than privates in their companies, were studying night and day to prepare themselves for the approaching examination. These found rest and recreation by whipping the neighboring brooks for trout on Saturday afternoon (you know it is time to begin trout-fishing when the maple buds start), while Tom Fisher and his followers diverted themselves by running the guard as often as the opportunity was presented.

On a certain night one of Tom’s friends who held one of the outside posts from eight o’clock until midnight, was taken suddenly ill, and was relieved by the corporal, his beat being taken by a boy who did not belong to the “set.” Tom had made arrangements for visiting Cony Ryan’s, and Don Gordon had charge of his floor. When taps had sounded, and the officer of the day had made his rounds, the guard-runners left their dormitories, one by one, Don turning his back so that he did not see them as they passed. They left the building without being discovered, but when they attempted to pass the sentry, their troubles began. They were halted, and by a voice that did not belong to the friend they had expected to find on that post. Amazed and disconcerted, they huddled together for a moment like a flock of sheep that had been suddenly frightened, and then, knowing that there was but one thing they could do, they turned and started for the academy on a dead run, the vigilant sentry all the while rending the air with his lusty calls for the corporal of the guard. They tumbled up the stairs, gained access to the floor on which their dormitories were situated, pulled off their uniforms without loss of time and went to bed, as miserable and frightened a lot of boys as the walls of that academy had ever inclosed.

“Did you ever hear of anything so very unfortunate?” whispered Fisher to his friend Duncan. “If there was any one of our fellows except Gordon in charge of this floor, we should be all right, for it is as dark as a pocket out of doors, and I know that that sentry could not have recognized us.”

“We ought never to have had anything to do with Gordon in the first place,” whispered Duncan, in reply.

“That’s what I have thought for a long time; but it is too late to mend the matter now. There they are,” he added, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs came to their ears. “It is all over with us now.”

So thought Don Gordon, only he used the word “me” instead of “us.” “I am in for it,” he soliloquized, “and I would give something to know what they will do with me. I’ll not go back on the boys, and that’s flat. The superintendent will give me a lively shake-up, of course; and then what will Bert say? What will mother think?”

When the officer of the day, attended as usual by the corporal, came up the stairs, he found Don pacing slowly along the hall with his hands behind his back. They returned his salute, but did not speak to him. They went to the upper end of the hall and began a thorough examination of all the rooms, the officer of the day arousing the occupant of every bed, while the corporal held his lantern aloft so that the face of each one could be plainly seen. Don’s dummy would not have saved him this time. When they had satisfied themselves that no one on that floor was missing, and had tried the door opening into the hall that led to the fire-escape, they went up the stairs to look into the dormitories on the floors above. In a quarter of an hour they went back to the guard-room, and Don was left alone. Scarcely had the sound of their footsteps died away in the lower hall when a dozen doors were softly opened, and almost twice as many heads were thrust cautiously out. “What’s the row, Gordon?” was the whispered chorus that saluted Don’s ears. “What did the officer of the day wake us up for? Anybody out?”

“There’s no one out who belongs on this floor,” replied Don. “And if there has been anything going on up stairs, I don’t know it.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Not a word!word!”

The students were all surprised to hear this, and there were some among them who were frightened as well. After a few more questions, which brought no information from Don for the simple reason that he had none to impart, the students all went back to bed except Fisher and Duncan, who lingered to have a word with Don in private. They were ill at ease, and told themselves that when the new fastenings were put on the doors, some new routine had been adopted of which they had not yet heard.

“Didn’t he ask you any questions at all—not a single one?” whispered Fisher.

“He didn’t open his lips,” answered Don.

“Didn’t say anything to you about reporting to him as soon as you were relieved, did he?” put in Duncan, who thought Don must surely be mistaken.

“How could he, when he didn’t open his lips?” asked Don, in reply.

“This is an unusual way of doing business,” said Tom, reflectively, “and there’s something about it that doesn’t look just right to me. Now, mark my words, fellows: they’re going to spring something new on us, and they will do it so suddenly, that it will knock us flatter than one of Cony Ryan’s pancakes. You’ll see.”

And sure enough they did.