January examinations passed by without material change in the standing of those in whom we are most interested, except in the case of Benny Frazier—too ill to appear before the Board. For weeks he had been "running down," and the assault at the hands of Jennings proved but the climax that brought on a violent and dangerous siege of fever. For days the devoted mother, aided by skilled nurses, was ever at the side of her stricken boy. Volunteers from his class, too, were always in readiness as night-watchers; but almost from the first the one for whom he called and of whom he moaned in his delirium was Geordie Graham. No one saw the meeting between the heart-sick, almost hopeless woman and her son's earliest friend and room-mate, but that she had been deeply agitated was plain. From their interview she came forth clinging to his arm, leaning on his strength, and from that time she was never content to have him far away. Each day, between retreat parade and evening call to quarters, there were hours he could spend at Frazier's bedside, and they were the only hours in all the twenty-four that the feeble, childlike patient looked forward to with anything but apathy. For days his life hung in the balance; but when at last the crisis came and went and left him pitiably weak in body and spirit, the one thing he seemed to cling to in life was Graham's brown and muscular hand.

"I wonder I am not jealous," said Mrs. Frazier to the doctor's kindly wife; "but I thank God my poor boy has such a friend left to him, after all his trouble—all the misery into which that—that awful person has led and held him."

And the awful person was Jennings, who, shunned like a pariah by the corps, was again awaiting trial by court-martial as soon as Frazier should be able to testify. For days it looked as though Benny never could appear before an earthly court, and that this case, like the other, must go by default. So long as it appeared that the fever would prove fatal, Jennings kept up his air of bravado and confidence. The evidence of Graham and Ames, the first to reach the scene of the assault, would be sufficient to convict him of that offence, but even they could prove nothing beyond a personal row, said he. It was fully understood, however, that back of all this trouble was the old case of Benny's plebe camp, and that the assault on Graham when a sentry, the stealing of Graham's rifle, and the desertion of Musician Doyle were all matters in which Jennings was a prime mover; and though now "outlawed by the statute"—more than two years having passed since the occurrence of these offences, during which time the alleged offender had in no wise sought to secrete himself from military justice, and therefore a case no longer triable by court-martial—there is no two-year limit to the contempt of the corps of cadets. They could send him to Coventry at any time, and even though he were graduated it might be impossible to obtain a commission.

But when it was noised about the battalion that Benny was on the mend, and that, day after day, he looked forward to nothing as he did to Geordie's visit, it became known that he had made a full and frank confession, and that Jennings was deeply implicated. Interviewed on this subject, Graham refused to say a word; but Mrs. Frazier had been less cautious. It seemed as though she could not do enough to undo her coldness and injustice to Geordie in the past, or to express her affection and regard for him now. In the overflow of her gratitude and joy, when at last her son was declared out of danger, she told the story to sympathetic lady friends, wives of officers stationed at the post, almost as it had been told to her by Benny, and it was not long in leaking through to the corps. The pent-up wrath of the battalion is not a thing to see and forget. The story flew from lip to lip. "Tar-and-feather him!" "Kick him out!" "Turn him loose and let him run the gantlet!" were some of the mad suggestions, but Bend and cooler counsels prevailed. Realizing his peril, Jennings implored the protection of the commandant, and was given a room in the officers' angle. Then the commandant and adjutant went with Dr. Brett to the convalescent's bedside, and Benny's statement was reduced to writing.

A few days later the police of Jersey City laid hands on a precious pair. One of them bore the name of Peter Peterson, the other was Doyle, ex-drummer, both wanted for blackmail and other offences, and Doyle for desertion. The news of this capture reached the corps late in the afternoon, and was the talk of the whole mess-hall at supper. Next morning at breakfast came sensation still bigger:

Jennings had fled.

Some time during the night he had packed up such things as he could carry and stolen quietly away. A sentry said he saw a young man in civilian dress, with a bag in his hand, going down towards the south dock about 11 o'clock. He boarded a night train at Cranston's Station, and that was all. It proved the easiest settlement of a vexed case. The court-martial turned its attention to Doyle, the deserter, and Doyle pleaded guilty, for his was a case that was still triable because he had absented himself ever since the desertion occurred. Throwing himself upon the mercy of the court, the boy made his statement. He said that one evening in camp, three summers back, Mr. Jennings was sentry on Number Three, and told him he wanted him, Doyle, to do an errand. Cadets often employed him, and paid him money to carry notes, or to buy cigars, or the like. It was arranged that he was to be there, back of Company A, about ten minutes before tattoo, and, going there, he found a rifle leaning against a tree, and this Mr. Jennings bade him carry out to a point near the east edge of the dump hollow, and look there in the weeds, where he would find, half hidden, another one. The drummers were allowed to cross the post of Number Three without question. He had no difficulty in finding and fetching in the rusty rifle, and left the new rifle in its place, as he had been told, supposing that it was only some trick they were playing. Mr. Frazier was there, inside the sentry's post, on his return, and received from him the rusty gun. That night, later, when he heard the adjutant and the cadet captains talking, he saw the matter was serious and got scared, and went out next day and "found," as he expressed it, what he had left there, and carried it to the adjutant. He was closely questioned, got more frightened, and wanted to tell all he knew; but Jennings swore he would be tried and sent to jail as a thief, and warned him the only safety lay in secrecy. Mr. Frazier gave him ten dollars then to buy his silence, and promised him more; but when Jennings was put in arrest and court was ordered to convene, both Jennings and Frazier were badly scared, and told him there was no hope for him at all if it came to trial, as they'd have to testify to his part in the thing, and that meant penitentiary. Then old Mr. Frazier came and had a talk with him down at the Falls: told him he must get away to save himself, gave him fifty dollars, and promised him employment and immunity from arrest if he would go at once. Doyle told Reilly, another of the boys, of his trouble, and Reilly said he'd better go. He got away all right, but the place Mr. Frazier gave him in Pennsylvania among the miners was too hard work; he couldn't stand it, and asked for more money, and until Frazier died he paid him. Then there was no way but to turn to the cadet, through Reilly, saying he was starving, and would have to come and give himself up and tell all about how the old man had bribed him to desert. Then all of a sudden he was nabbed, and that ended it. No! Cadet Frazier had never suggested desertion. It was all Mr. Jennings and the father.

And Benny's story corroborated much of poor Doyle's. Jennings had halted him down by the water-tank that wretched night in camp, pointed out how Pops was being shown too much favoritism and getting the "big head." Jennings put him up to getting Graham's rifle—a matter that was easily accomplished in the darkness and the deserted street of Company B; but he never meant it for anything more than a joke, though he was jealous of Graham's success, and did think that he was having too much partiality shown him. Then when Jennings told him to take the rusty rifle to the tent in place of the new one, he wanted to back out; but it was too late. Jennings bullied and threatened him with exposure and dismissal for stealing, etc.—threatened even then to call the corporal of the guard and have him taken to the guard-house, caught in the act. He was bewildered and terrified, and ended by doing exactly as he was told. Then came that dreadful day of investigation, followed later by Jennings's arrest; and then Jennings told him of their desperate plight, and bade him wire for his father to come at once. Jennings told him what to say to his father, and wrote a letter, setting forth what would happen if the drum-boy could not be "fixed," and suggesting how to fix him. His father was utterly dismayed at the scrape that Benny was in, and accepted all Jennings's statements. He did not, of course, consult any of the officers, but carried out everything proposed to the letter. For the time being the boys were saved, but within another year Benny learned from the other drum-boy, Reilly, the one with whom he had had the trouble, that Doyle had let the cat out of the bag. Then he had to bribe Reilly. Then Jennings, too, levied on him, and his father later on, while on furlough; and after his father's death poor Benny's life was one succession of torments. Doyle, Reilly, and Jennings, too, "bled" and threatened him time and again, until in his desperation he sought to make a clean breast of it all to Graham. That night Jennings suspected his object, overtook him in the hall, seized and choked and carried him back, and nearly finished him by strangulation before rescue came. Benny was ready to stand trial—suffer any punishment; but by this time the poor fellow's prostration and penitence, his mother's tears and anxiety, and the fact that he had been throughout the entire history of the affair only a cat's-paw, coupled with the reports of the surgeons that he was in no condition to face a trial, all prevailed. It was late in February before he was sufficiently recovered to be moved about, and then sick leave of absence was granted, and he with his devoted mother left for Nassau. He had parted company with the old class for good and all, and was ordered to report in June and join the class below.

March, spring drills, spring rides, and the election of hop managers for First Class camp, all were upon them again before Benny and his strange and unhappy experiences had ceased to be the universal topic of conversation. Geordie had wonderful letters to write that month, and there had been an interchange of missives between two grateful, prayerful women, one letter leading to another, until now Mrs. Graham's weekly budget to her big boy was full of Mrs. Frazier and the sweet, womanly, motherly letters she wrote. April came, and, despite his modest declination of such an honor, Geordie found himself chosen among the foremost of the nine hop managers for the coming camp. More than that, while study had become so habitual to him that he had risen slowly but steadily even in the most difficult portions of applied mathematics, his progress in chemistry and kindred topics had been still more marked. But, better than all, he was now in the midst of a course wherein no one in all the class was more thoroughly at home. From boyhood, drill and drill regulations, as they are called in this day—"tactics," as they were in his—were matters of everyday acquaintance. He knew cavalry drill "from a to izzard," and the infantry tactics through the school of the battalion thoroughly and well. But all the same he left no stone unturned, no paragraph unstudied, before each day's recitation. Here, at least, were subjects in which he could "face the music" week after week and fairly triumph. And to the delight of Connell, Winn, Ames, Ross, and the first section men generally, it was seen that Geordie was "maxing" steadily through, never losing a single tenth in infantry.

"Go it, Coyote, go it!" said Connell. "By jimminy! there isn't a man in the class that would begrudge you the first place if you can get it." It was even queried whether Ames, to whom maxing in anything now came as easy as failure to some boys, had not deliberately "slouched off" a couple of points so as to secure to Graham first mark in infantry; though, just to make sure of his own place in general standing, he stuck to a solid line of 3's in artillery, Pops following close behind. So far as marks were concerned, therefore, Geordie was certain of high rank in the general subject, for he was as thorough in cavalry as in infantry. Battery books alone presented any novelty to him, and it was conceded that the June examination could not change his prospects.

Meantime, too, as the spring wore on, the members of the Graduating Class seemed to feel that it was due to themselves to behave towards Graham with marked cordiality and regard. Anybody failing in this respect might render himself liable to suspicion of being in some way connected with the old Jennings clique; and no greater shame attached to any member of the corps now than that he had at any time been an associate of that fellow, or even guided by his opinion. On the other hand, to be pointed out as the one man in the corps who had "knocked out" that redoubtable middle-weight was honor that overtopped the chevrons of half the senior class. No one doubted that there were other fellows who could have "bested" the representative of the "Sanguinary Second," but he had wisely refrained from giving them opportunity. Feeling sure of Pops, he ventured once too often, and down went the star of his glory.

May, with its sunshine and showers and long languorous days—"the days of spring fever and spring fights," as the cadets used to say—found the relations between Geordie and his company more and more cordial. All through the year, with absolute impartiality and quiet force, he had done his duty to the best of his ability, and Connell, with all his pride in "old D," was the last to claim for it a superiority over the color company. Bend declared he never had to bother his head about it at all. He marched it out to parade or inspection, but his first sergeant looked to the discipline. Among the officers of the tactical department, too, there was no lack of appreciation of the way in which "McCrea's plebe" had won his way up the ladder of promotion, and the relative position of the cadet officers for the coming summer was already a problem over which the corps was indulging in much speculation and the commandant in no little thought. The two finest positions, as has been said, are those of first captain and adjutant. The former commands the battalion in the mess-hall and on its way to and from the same, while the latter has the most conspicuous part to play at parade, guard-mounting, and the like. The first captain is assigned to the right flank, Company A, and his responsibilities are great. He requires dignity and strength of character beyond the other officers. The adjutant should be a model in bearing, carriage, voice, command, but his duties are more picturesque than formidable. As a rule, these high offices—the captaincies, adjutancy, etc.—are given to cadets whose scholarship and class standing are also high; for in the greater number of cases soldierly ability and character are there to be found. Yet it often happens that the head of the First Class is only a private in the ranks, and the senior captain or the adjutant comes from the other end of the line. When graduation is close at hand, however, the commandant makes out a list of the recommendations for the coming year, and this he submits to the superintendent. His wishes generally carry all possible weight.

It rarely happens that the first captain is selected from outside the first sergeants of the previous year, and in four cases out of five the office goes to the first sergeant of Company A. The sergeant-major in the same degree is looked upon as a sort of legitimate heir to the adjutancy. He has served as senior non-commissioned officer for a year, and yet has had no opportunity of command other than the few seconds required in forming the guard. He may never have given the command "Forward, march!" He may turn out to have little or no voice, and voice is something an adjutant must have. The first sergeants, on the contrary, have constant use for their lungs and larynx and faculties of command; and it used to happen quite frequently that, to one of these, instead of the sergeant-major, the prize of the adjutancy was given.

But there was no room for doubt in Benton's case, said the corps. He was soldier in every word and action; stood one of the five—sure; had a rich resonant voice, that was good to hear in the cadet choir and a delight at the entertainment given the fag-end of February—"one hundred days to June." No doubt, the plume and chevrons and sword-knot of the adjutancy would be his; "and no one," said Badger and Coyote, "would better grace or deserve it." On the score of the first captaincy they had less to say, but the battalion said a good deal. No one quite understood why, when Ames was dropped from third to sixth corporal, Wright had not been dropped from second to eighth or even below. He was a fine, tall, dignified fellow, massive of voice and slow of movement, and a very hard student. He was "dad" of the class, but no longer stood in the 5's. He was a fine-looking corporal and would have made an admirable color-bearer, but his impressive dignity was what lifted him so high at the start; and, acting as first sergeant of Company A in their yearling camp under a famous captain, he made no serious failure, but could not compare with either Graham or Connell or Winn as a drill-master. He was made first sergeant of Company A, however, at the outset; and as he was methodical and massive, things looked all right; but it soon became apparent that all manner of "breaks" could happen before his eyes and Wright never see them. More than that, roll-call with him was a very perfunctory affair. Time and again he faced about and reported, "All present, sir!" when one, two, and even, as once happened, six of his company had slept through reveille. Discipline couldn't help running down in Company A; and when recitations in tactics were about half over, it became evident that Wright was nowhere, compared with Graham and Benton, Ames and Connell, and a dozen more of the class.

"If Wright's made first captain, he'll go to sleep some day, and the corps will march right away from him," said his own cadet captain, who was a frequent sufferer from his sergeant's lapses. "Still, he has the prestige of being first in Company A right along, and nobody can say what Colonel Hazzard or the Supe may do."

But it was decided soon enough.

Back from the beautiful grove, one exquisite June morning, marched the jaunty battalion, each graduate bearing in his white-gloved hand the diploma he had just received in the presence of the revered old general-in-chief, who for the last time addressed the eager audience in cadet gray. Once more the line reformed in the shade of the massive elms in front of barracks. Gray-and-white and motionless, it faced the tall plumed figure of the cadet adjutant, unfolding the last order. Eagerly, impetuously a throng of visitors—men and women, girls and boys—came scurrying after and grouping breathlessly among the trees, all eyes on one form, all ears on one voice. Though he win the highest honors in the highest corps in the army of the United States, not for many a year will that young gentleman be again the centre of such absorbed and universal regard. Quickly he rattles through the orders for the dispersal of the Graduating Class. Who cares for that? They all know that beforehand, anyway. They'll be out of cadet uniform and into cit's in ten minutes from the word "Break ranks!" Here's what all ears are striving to hear. Listen:

And now Pops is conscious that the trees are swimming and he is getting dizzy. First captain! first captain! He? What will not mother say? What will not Bud say? It is almost incredible. But he gathers himself as the adjutant runs down the list. He sees the smile in Bend's kind face as his loved friend and captain faces about, and for the last time says, "Dismiss the company!" Mechanically his hand snaps in to the shoulder in salute, as for the last time he jumps the old rifle up to the carry, then steps to the front and faces to his left, and finds a frog in his throat as he gives the order, for the last time, to the company he has so well handled throughout the year, "Carry arms!" "Arms port!" "Break ranks, March!" and then is swallowed up in the cheering, hand-shaking, uproarious rush of the whole battalion; is lifted on the shoulders of a squad of stalwart fellows, faithful Connell among them, and borne triumphantly down along the road, and a lane is made through the gang of tossing shakoes, and suddenly a lithe little dark-eyed fellow, in natty suit of summery cits, sends a white top-hat spinning up into the overhanging elms, and clasps Geordie's right in both his dainty kid-gloved hands. "Pops, dear old boy, nobody's gladder than I am!"

And indeed Frazier looks it.