Don Gordon's Shooting-Box. Castlemon Harry

their muscles in the gymnasium. “There isn’t another fellow in school who can do that.”

      The subject of these remarks was Don Gordon, who had just come out dressed in neat dark-blue trunks and flesh-colored tights. His arms were bare to the shoulder, revealing muscles at which the boys around him gazed in admiration. His first act was to walk up to the nearest swing, take hold of one of the rings and draw himself up to his chin twice in succession with one hand.

      “I tell you, Duncan, you had better let him alone,” continued Fisher, still watching Don, who was now going hand over hand up a rope toward the lofty ceiling.

      “And swallow everything he said to me this morning?” exclaimed the bully.

      “No, I didn’t mean that,” Fisher hastened to reply. “Those insulting remarks must of course be taken back and apologized for; but you can’t make him do it alone.”

      “Just give me the chance, and I’ll show you whether I can or not,” answered Duncan, who was always angry whenever there was any imputation cast upon his prowess. “He has come here intending to set at naught all the old-time customs of the institution – haven’t you noticed how persistently he refuses to salute everybody but an officer? – and if we are willing to stand by and let him do it, I say we are a pack of cowards. He must be made to come down from his high horse.”

      “And he shall be,” said Fisher, encouragingly. “We will attend to that bootblack’s case to-night, and the first good chance we get we’ll take Mr. Gordon in hand. By the way, Duncan – ”

      The two boys drew off on one side and entered into a whispered consultation, now and then beckoning to one or another of their friends, until there were a dozen or more students gathered about them. They conversed earnestly together for a few minutes, and then put on their clothes and left the gymnasium. Don and Bert Gordon followed them soon after, and on giving their names to the orderly in the hall, were admitted to the presence of the superintendent. After they had both saluted him, Don said:

      “Colonel, we have brought with us a letter of introduction from our father, addressed to Mr. Packard, who is a relative of one of our nearest neighbors, and if you have no objections we should like permission to present it to-night.”

      “Certainly,” said the superintendent, as he picked up a pen and pulled a sheet of paper toward him. “You can go immediately after supper, and I will write you a pass. You ought to have presented it when you first came. Why did you put it off so long?”

      “Why – I – you know, sir, that we received a reprimand on the morning following our arrival here for not putting out our light at ten o’clock,” faltered Don, “and I was afraid you would think we ought to stay inside the grounds until we had learned to obey the rules.”

      “Ah, yes,” said the superintendent with a smile. “I believe I remember something about that. Well, it did you good, did it not? You haven’t been reported since. I hope your record at the end of your course will be as good as that of your father, who, I must say, was a very exemplary student. It is true that he did run the guard now and then, the temptations at Cony Ryan’s proving rather too strong for him; and when he was here with you last August, I think he told me that while he was a member of my school he spent forty-three Saturdays in walking extras; but, for all that, he was a good boy – a very good boy. Here’s your pass.”

      Don expressed his thanks for the favor, and he and Bert saluted and retired, lost in wonder.

      “Running the guard!” repeated the former, in a loud tone. “What does that mean?”

      “What’s walking an extra?” said Bert, in the same low voice; “and who is Cony Ryan?”

      “Here comes Egan; we’ll ask him,” said Don.

      The individual referred to was a first-class boy, and the first sergeant of Don’s company. When he was on duty he was a soldier all over; but during the hours of recreation he was as jovial and friendly a fellow as there was to be found about the academy.

      “Say, sergeant,” said Don, not forgetting to salute, “what does a cadet do when he runs the guard?”

      “What does he do?” repeated the sergeant. “Why, he spends a good portion of the next Saturday afternoon in walking an extra to pay for it.”

      “I mean, how does he run the guard?” explained Don.

      “Now, Gordon, isn’t that just the least bit – you know,” said the sergeant, laying his finger by the side of his nose and looking very wise. “You surely don’t expect me to tell you how it is done, do you? You had better ask Fisher or Duncan, or some of that crowd. They have had considerable experience in it.”

      “We want to know what the meaning of the expression is,” said Bert.

      “O, that’s it! Well, when a fellow slips out of his room, gets off the grounds without being caught, and comes back in the morning in time to fall in and answer to roll-call, we call that running the guard. By walking an extra we mean doing additional guard duty. The reason that Saturday is selected as a day of punishment is because the afternoon is given over almost entirely to recreation; but those who have been arrested while attempting to run the guard, or who have been caught in other acts of disobedience, are not allowed to take advantage of those hours of recreation, because they have already had their fun. Understand?”

      Don said he did; and then he inquired who Cony Ryan was, and what he did to tempt the boys.

      “Cony Ryan!” repeated the sergeant, his eyes growing brighter and a smile overspreading his face, as the memory of old times came back to him. “Why, he is a part of the academy, and I have seen the day when I thought we could not possibly get along without him. He keeps a neat little house down by the big pond, where he serves up the best pancakes I ever ate. His mince and pumpkin pies top the heap; and as for his maple molasses – ah!”

      The sergeant walked off, smacking his lips, and Don and Bert kept on up the stairs.

      “I rather think Egan has been there,” observed the latter.

      “I know he has,” replied Don, “and the taste of that maple syrup clings to his palate yet.”

      On entering their room Don threw himself into a chair, stretched his legs out before him, buried his hands in his pockets, and gazed down at the floor in a brown study; while Bert leaned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands, and looked at him. Presently Don threw back his head and laughed so loudly and heartily that his brother was obliged to laugh too.

      “I never dreamed of such a thing,” said Bert, who knew what was passing in Don’s mind.

      “No more did I. Just think how that dignified father of ours must have looked running the guard and standing punishment for it afterward! He took good care not to say a word to us about it, didn’t he? I say, Bert,” exclaimed Don, suddenly, and then he as suddenly paused.

      “Don’t you do it,” said Bert, earnestly. “You will be certain to get yourself into trouble by it.”

      “If I did, I should be perfectly willing to take the consequences. But father couldn’t haul me over the coals for it, could he?”

      “If father were here now, he wouldn’t think of doing such things.”

      “Neither would I if I were a man.”

      “But you won’t go to Cony Ryan’s, will you?” pleaded Bert.

      “Of course not. Don’t borrow any trouble on that score. I promised mother that I would behave myself, and I am going to do it. But I should like to taste those pies and pancakes, all the same,” added Don, to himself.

      That evening, after supper, Don and Bert showed their pass to the sentry at the gate, and set out to pay their long deferred visit to Mr. Packard. Why was it that they did not think to read that pass when it was given to them? If they had, they might have saved themselves from something disagreeable that afterward happened. They passed a very pleasant evening at Mr. Packard’s house, and at half-past ten they took leave of their new friends and started for the academy.

      As