"An invitation! Why, surely, man, you must be mistaken. They never invite plebes to the hops."

The speaker was Mark. He was sitting with a book in his hand beneath the shade trees at one side of the summer encampment of the corps. At that moment he was looking up from the book at Chauncey, who had just approached him.

"An invitation!" he repeated. "I can hardly believe it possible."

"Perhaps if you see it you'll believe it more readily, ye know," remarked the dudish cadet.

"Seeing's believing, they say," laughed Mark, taking it and glancing at the address. "Mr. Chauncey Van Renssalaer Mount-Bonsall," he read. "Yes, I guess that's for you. I don't believe there are two persons on earth with that name, or with one so altogether aristocratic and impressive."

Mark was glancing at the other out of the corner of his eye with a roguish look as he said that. He saw a rather pleased expression sweep over his face and knew that he had touched his friend Chauncey in his weak spot. Mark[Pg 119] had been removing the contents of the envelope as he spoke. He found a square card, handsomely engraved; and he read it with a look of amazement upon his face—amazement which the other noticed with evident pleasure.

The card had the words "Camp McPherson" over the top, and below in a monogram, "U. S. C. C."—United States Cadet Corps. At one side was a view of the camp, the Highlands of the Hudson in the distance. And in the center were the words that had caused all the surprise:

"The pleasure of your company is requested at the hops to be given by the Corp of Cadets every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening during the encampment.

"West Point, N. Y.,
"July 6, 18—."

That was all, except for the list of "hop managers" below. But such as it was, it was enough to cause Mark no end of perplexity.

"A plebe invited to the hop," he muttered. "I can hardly believe it yet. There must be some mistake surely. Why, man, no plebe has ever danced at a hop in all West Point's history. They scarcely know there are such things. Just think of it once—we miserable beasts who hardly dare raise our heads, and who have to obey everyone on earth!"

"We've raised our heads pretty well, bah Jove," drawled[Pg 120] the other. "And we've shown ourselves a deuced bit livelier than the yearlings, don't ye know."

"Yes, but we've only done that by force. We've licked them and outwitted them at every turn, something no plebes have ever dared to do before. But simply because we've made them recognize our rights that way is no reason why they should ask one of us to a hop."

"No," responded Chauncey, "it isn't. But I know what is."

"What?"

"I've a cousin in New York by the name of Sturtevant—deuced aristocratic folks are the Sturtevants! Ever hear of the Sturtevants of New York?"

"Er—yes," responded Mark, that same sly look in his eyes again. "I've heard of them very often. They are related to the Smiths, aren't they?"

"Well, not that I know of, bah Jove—but come to think of it, my second cousin was a Sturtevant and she married one of the De Smythes, if that's who you're thinking of."

"I guess that's it," said Mark, solemnly. "Let it go at that, anyway. But what have the Sturtevants, the Sturtevants of New York, got to do with a West Point hop?"

"It's simply that this cousin of mine, ye know, has a friend up here, a first class man, an adjutant or sergeant[Pg 121] quartermaster, or some such deuced animal, I forget just what, bah Jove! Anyway, I've an idea he got me the invitation."

Mark let himself down to the ground on his back and lay there for a few moments after his friend's "explanation," while he thought over it and incidentally kicked a tree trunk for exercise. Chauncey waited anxiously, wondering what sort of an effect his announcement of his influential friends would have upon Mark.

"Those yearlings," began the latter at last, in a meditative, half soliloquizing tone, "have never yet lost an opportunity to annoy us."

"What's this got to do with the hop, bah Jove?" interrupted Chauncey.

"Lots. It's simply this. You have been just as fresh as any of us, Chauncey. With all your aristocratic blood, ye know. I saw you nearly whip half a dozen of them one day when they wouldn't stop hazing Indian."

"I didn't whip them, bah Jove," began Chauncey, modestly.

"Well, anyhow, they couldn't whip you, and so it was all the same. The point is that they have never done anything to be revenged for the insult. I have an idea that this may be an attempt."

"This!" echoed the other in surprise. "Pray how?"

"Simply that they'd like to see you come to the hop[Pg 122] and have nobody to dance with—for no girl will dance with a plebe, you know, I don't care who he is—and so have to go home feeling pretty cheap. Then you'd be the laughingstock of the corps, as the plebe who wanted to dance at the hop."

It was Chauncey's turn to be thoughtful then. And to his credit be it said that he recognized the truth there was in Mark's explanation of that surprising card. For Chauncey was no fool, even if he was dudish and aristocratic.

"I'm afraid that's it," said he. "I'm deuced glad I thought of asking you, Mark, ye know. I'll not go to-night. And we'll let the matter drop, bah Jove."

"Let it drop!" echoed Mark; and then he added, with emphasis, "Not much!"

"What'll ye do?"

"Do? What's the use of having a secret society for the purpose of avenging insults, if you don't avenge 'em? And don't you call it an insult that the yearlings should suppose us big enough fools to take that bait and go to their old hop?"

"It was rather insulting," admitted Chauncey.

"It was," said Mark. "And what's more, I move that we retaliate this very day. Let's go up and find the rest of the Seven, and by Jingo, perhaps we'll bust up their plaguey old hop!"

[Pg 123]With which words Mark slammed his book to and arose to his feet and set out in a hurry for camp.

They entered Camp McPherson and hurried up the A Company "street" to their own ............