The four big double tents occupied by the four army officers commanding cadet companies were aligned opposite their company streets, and some twenty yards away from them. The big "marquee" of the commandant stood still farther back, close to the shaded post of Number Four—and all so white and still and ghostly. The corporal of the relief came round in ten minutes to test the sentries' knowledge of the night orders. Pops challenged sharply: "Who comes there?" and went through his military catechism with no serious error. Half an hour later the clink of sword was heard, and the cadet officer of the guard made the rounds, and still there came no sign of trouble. Twice had the call of the half-hour passed around camp. "Half-past two o'clock, and a-l-l's well," went echoing away among the moonlit mountains, and still no sight or sound of coming foe.
"They won't dare, it's so bright a night," said Pops to himself. "Only an Apache could creep up on me here. They have to come from the side of camp if they come at all. They can't get out across any sentry post."
Pacing slowly eastward, his rifle on his shoulder, turning vigilantly behind him every moment or two, he had reached the tank where the overhanging shade was heaviest and the darkness thick. Opposite the shoeblack's tent he turned about and started westward again, where all at the upper end of his post lay bright and clear. He could see the white trousers and belts of Number Two glinting in the moonlight as he sauntered along the northern end of his post. Then of a sudden everything was dark, his rifle pitched forward into space; something hot, soft, stifling enveloped his head and arms, and wound round and round about him—all in the twinkling of an eye. Cry out he could not. Brawny arms embraced him in a bear-hug. Sightless, he was rushed forward, tripped up, and the next instant half slid, half rolled, into the dewy, grassy depths of Clinton ditch. Unhurt, yet raging, when at last, unrolling himself from the folds of a drum-boy's blanket, and shouting for the corporal of the guard, he clambered back to his post. Then not a trace could be seen of his assailants, not a sign of his beautiful gun.
There was excitement in camp next morning. Beyond rapid-running foot-falls and certain sounds of smothered laughter among the tents, nothing had been heard by any sentry, plebe or yearling, of the assailants of Number Three, yet they must have been three or four in number. Geordie was sure of that; sure also that they must have concealed themselves in the shoeblack's tent or behind the trees at the east end of his post. Once clear of his muffling, his loud yell for the corporal of the guard had brought that young soldier down from the guard-tents full tilt. (It transpired long afterwards that he was expecting the summons.) It also brought Lieutenant Webster out of bed and into his trousers in one jump. "Deviling sentries" was something that had not been dared the previous summer, and was hardly expected now. The officer of the guard, too, thought it expedient to hurry to the scene, and those two cadet officials were upbraiding Mr. Graham for the loss of his equipment and equilibrium when Mr. Webster interposed.