Harple watched with alarm the demoralization also of Brede. He felt and knew that there were strong and co-operating influences at work on these two long-time rivals and enemies that were dragging them both, surely and rapidly, to degradation; but what these influences were he could not even guess.
Almost every movement made by either was an act of retrogression. Perhaps the change was more marked in respect to the society they chose than in any other way. Boys with whom Brightly had had nothing in common in the better days, and whom Brede had utterly disdained, appeared now to be the friends of both.
Colonel Silsbee's hope that the deepening spring-time would put to rest the spirit of unquietness and discontent among his boys was not realized. There was neglect of lessons; there were breaches of military discipline, infractions of academy rules, private quarrels, boisterous conduct.
A half-dozen of the older boys had been discovered one day in a secluded nook smoking cigars and pipes, and had been promptly disciplined. There had been an incipient riot in the upper dormitory at night after taps, the participants in which had been severely punished. Half the school was on delinquency, and of half that number the delinquency was perpetual.
The principal and teachers were quite at a loss what course to pursue. One thing only seemed feasible, and that was to draw the lines with still greater strictness, and to compel the utmost obedience by the severest discipline.
Thus matters stood at the close of a beautiful May day. It was one of those languid, luxuriant days on which every lover of Nature longs to be in the woods and fields, breathing without stint air sweetened by the touch of bursting buds and growing leaves and springing grass.
It was after supper and before the time for the evening session. The boys were strolling about the grounds, playing quiet games, or lounging on the lawn. A group of them, however, had gathered near the eastern porch of the building, and were shouting and singing boisterously. Some one had composed a few doggerel verses containing little of either rhyme or metre, and had entitled them "The Noble Army of Delinquents." It was the chorus of this song that the members of the little group were shouting out with rude vigor. They tired of this finally, and then one, Fryant, spoke up.