Argosy, Vol. 85, No. 3 — page 87: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A SOLDIER’S HONOR. ‘“ By George, Monk!” He flung up his head with a sudden flash of excitement. “Tf this thing’s as you say it is, we may be able to save my bacon.” ‘“Hold on a minute,” cautioned Dar- win. “Don’t start to celebrating too soon. We’ve got to catch our rabbit, you know, before we can cook it, and I’m won- dering just a bit how we’re going to man- age his royal highness, and make him un- derstand what we’re after. Ten to one none of the party can speak a word of English.” ‘“Ah! That’s where your Uncle Cyrus plays trumps,” Kerr cried exuberantly. ‘You never heard me spout Chinee, did you, Monk? Well, I can—good enough anyhow ‘to make myself understood. I picked it up from old Hop Lee, our cook out at Santa Barbara.” ‘“ But even so,” Darwin still shook his head, ‘“‘ how will you get to the prince to tell him what we want?” “How?” Kerr shot him a glance of withering disdain. ‘‘ How? Why, bawl it at him from the ranks, if I have to, you bonehead. Never fear but what I'll get to him somehow. A chance like this comes too pat to let it slip through my fingers.” So all that evening the two schemed and plotted to the utter neglect of their duties, and when at last the bugle sound- ed, ‘‘ Lights out,” Kerr retired, firm in the belief that the problem had been solved, and feeling as if the load of care he had been carrying for so many months at last had fallen from his shoulders. Did any uneasy forebodings trouble his pillow that night, warning him of the con- sequences of his proposed action—conse- quences that were to lead him half-way around-the world, and test his fiber in the fire of great experiences? Truth to tell, no. The routine of a day at West Point, with its rigorous grind, is hardly conducive to visions either pro- phetic or otherwise. A slumbering young giant, Mosely lay there on his narrow army cot, deep- breathing, oblivious to both his past and 429 his future, while destiny perched on his footboard and waited for the day. CHAPTER IV. THERE’S MANY A SLIP. West POINT prides itself on always being prepared. Less than twenty- four hours’ notice had been given of the impending royal visit; yet at noon when the party arrived, arrangements had been completed covering every detail for the proper reception of the prince, his daugh- ter, the Princess Chu Sing, who accom- panied him, and the various members of their retinue. Kerr Mosely, painfully ‘“ bugling ”— cadet slang for “ stalling ’»—at a recita- tion in mathematics, felt his heart leap with a thrill of excitement when he heard the rap of the professor calling a halt for the dismissal of the “section,” and the subsequent announcement that all mem- bers of the corps, donning full dress, were to hold themselves ready for immediate assembly. In spite of the notice on the bulletin- board, Kerr had been haunted with anx- ious fears lest something might happen to interfere with the coming of the party; but now, with the assurance that the prince had actually arrived, he shot a glance of purposeful significance at Dar- win, and his heart beat high with a spirit of adventure. Colonel Vance, the superintendent, rigged out in all the regalia of his position —chapeau, gold-fringed. epaulets, and clanking sword—and surrounded by his equally glittering staff, met the distin- guished visitors at the station and extend- ed them a ceremonious welcome. Then, as the cannon roared out a royal salute, they were escorted up the hill, where the corps was drawn up, a long, gray line in front of barracks “‘ present- ing ”’ faultlessly, as the cavalcade whirled Standing at rigid attention, Kerr scanned the impassive Oriental faces of comicloool C©