ill. And so Benny expects to turn up to annoy you as one of the

plebes who come in when camp breaks up on the 28th of August.

“Having warned you of this disagreeable possibility nothing now remains for me to do but wish you the best possible luck in your quarrel with the first class, and so sign myself,

“Sincerely yours, “WICKS MERRITT.”

The Seven stared at each other as Mark folded up the letter.

“Fellows,” said he, “we’ve got just one month to wait, just one month. Then that contemptible fellow will be here to bother us. But in the meantime I say we forget about him. He’s unpleasant to think about. Let’s not mention him again until we see him.”

And the Parson echoed, “Yea, by Zeus.”

The Parson was just the same old parson he was the day he first struck West Point. Frequent hazings had not robbed him of his quiet and classic dignity; and still more frequent battles with “the enemy” had not made him a whit less learned and studious. He was from Boston, was Parson Stanard, and he was proud of it. Also, he was a geologist of erudition most astoundingly deep. He had a bag of most wonderful fossils hidden away in his tent, fossils with names as long as the Parson’s venerable and bony legs in their pale green socks.

The Parson was not wholly devoted to fossils, for he was member No. 3 in our Banded Seven, of which Mark was the leader. No. 4 was “Indian,” the fat and gullible and much hazed Joe Smith, of Indianapolis. After him came the merry and handsome Dewey, otherwise known as “B’gee!” the prize story-teller of the crowd. Chauncey, surnamed “the dude,” and Sleepy, “the farmer,” made up the rest of that bold and valiant band which was notorious for its “B. J.-ness.” (B. J., before June, means freshness.)

Master Benjamin Bartlett having been laid on the shelf for a month, the Seven cast about them for a new subject of conversation to while away the half hour of “recreation” allotted to them between the morning’s drill and dinner.

“I want to know,” suggested Dewey, “what shall we do this afternoon, b’gee?”

That afternoon was Saturday (“the first Saturday we’ve had for a week,” as Dewey sagely informed them, whereat Indian cried out: “Of course! Bless my soul! How could it be otherwise?”) Saturday is a half holiday for the cadets.

“I don’t know,” said Mark. “I hardly think the yearlings’ll try any hazing to-day. They’re waiting to see what the first class’ll do when I get well enough to fight them.”

The Parson arose to his feet with dignity.

“It is my purpose,” he said, with grave decision, “to undertake an excursion into the mountainous country in back of us, particularly to the portion known as the habitation of the Corous Americanus----”

“The habitation of the what?”

“Of the Corous Americanus. You have probably heard the mountain spoken of as ‘Crow’s Nest,’ but I prefer the other more scientific and accurate name, since there are in America numerous species of crows, some forty-seven in all, I believe.”

The six sighed.

“It is my purpose,” continued the Parson, blinking solemnly as any wise old owl, “to admire the beauties of the scenery, and also to conduct a little cursory geological investigation in order to----”

“Say,” interrupted Texas.

“Well?” inquired the Parson.

“D’you mean you’re a-goin’ to take a walk?”

“Er--yes,” said the Parson, “that is----”

“Let’s all go,” interrupted Texas. “I’d like to see some o’ that there geologizin’ o’ yourn.”

“I shall be delighted to extend you an invitation,” said the other, cordially.

And thus it happened that the Banded Seven took a walk back in the mountains that Saturday afternoon. That walk was the most momentous walk that those lads ever had occasion to take.