The Putnam Hall Rebellion. Stratemeyer Edward
was Pepper who spoke, as the Hall cadets came to a halt in Rawling’s pasture, – a lot containing nearly a hundred acres which were almost as smooth as a barn floor. It had taken the battalion almost an hour to march there, and the students were allowed half an hour in which to rest up previous to beginning the contest on the three ranges which had been established in the pasture. The ranges were of one hundred yards, two hundred yards, and three hundred yards, the last named distance being deemed sufficiently great for the light rifles the cadets used. Had they had arms of greater caliber, Captain Putnam would have made the long range five hundred yards.
“I don’t expect to make very much of a score,” said Andy Snow. “I am not much of a shooter. Now if it was a contest in the gym. – ”
“Andy would win all the medals,” finished Jack, with a laugh.
“I’d rather have a fishing contest,” put in Stuffer, who loved to go out with his rod.
“Sure, and what’s the matter wid an eating contest, Stuffer?” inquired Hogan, with a broad grin. “I’m after thinking you’d take the head prize there – and all the others, too!”
“Huh, you needn’t talk,” grumbled Stuffer. “I notice you can do your share when we sit down in the mess hall.”
“That’s one thing I like about Putnam Hall,” declared Fred Century. “A fellow always gets enough to eat – at least I do. Now at Pornell Academy the meals were very uneven. The dinners were usually good, but some of the suppers were woefully slim.”
“If the meals were slim here I’d rebel,” answered Pepper.
“So would I!” cried Stuffer. “I’d raise the biggest kick you ever heard of.” How true their words were to become we shall see later.
The shooting soon began – at a distance of one hundred yards, and for two hours there was a steady crack! crack! of the rifles.
Each cadet had three shots at each target. A bull’s-eye counted five, so a perfect score would total up to forty-five.
On the short range, Jack managed to make three bull’s-eyes, thus scoring 15. Pepper got 13 and Andy 11. Much to his own delight Reff Ritter got 15, although one of his shots barely touched the bull’s-eye. Coulter received but 9, much to his disgust. The other cadets ranged from 10 to 5, – the five being made by Mumps, who was almost afraid to discharge his weapon.
“Wouldn’t Mumps make a fine soldier!” whispered Pepper to Jack. “If he saw the enemy approaching he’d run for all he was worth.”
“If he didn’t get too frightened to move,” added the young major.
“He certainly is both a coward and a sneak.”
At the two-hundred yard range Jack made 14, while Pepper finished with 13, the same as before. The long-range shooting was not to take place until after lunch.
“I don’t know whether to call it my unlucky thirteen or not,” said The Imp. “It’s not so good as your score, but it’s better than some others.”
“It is certainly lucky,” answered Andy, who had made but 9 on the middle range. “If you do so well on the long range you’ll be one of the leaders.”
“Reff Ritter made 14,” put in Joe Nelson. “He and Jack and Bart Conners are tied for first place so far.”
“Coulter had dropped behind, and Paxton’s score isn’t much better than Mump’s,” came from Dale Blackmore.
“I’ve got two elevens,” said Fred Century. “I don’t think that’s so bad for a fellow who hasn’t used a rifle for some years.”
Lunch was had in the shade of a number of trees growing at the edge of the pasture. While the cadets were eating many of them stacked their rifles and hung their belts and cartridge boxes on the weapons. Jack put aside his sword and also the gun and cartridge holder he had been using. There was a small brook nearby, fed by springs, and in this many of the boys washed their hands and faces before eating.
While the meal was still in progress Gus Coulter motioned to Reff Ritter and Nick Paxton, and the three drew away from the crowd and into some bushes behind the trees.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Coulter, in a low voice. “I don’t know if we can work it or not, but if we can – well, somebody will be surprised, that’s all.”
“What’s your idea?” demanded Ritter.
“I was hanging around when Bob Grenwood, the quartermaster, was giving out the ammunition for the shooting after lunch, on the three-hundred yard range. I heard him say that he had brought along a case of blanks by mistake. He said they looked a good deal like the cartridges that had bullets in. Now if we could get hold of that case of blanks – ”
“We can do that easily enough,” interrupted Nick Paxton. “The case is right over yonder, on a rock.” And he pointed with his hand.
“I reckon I know what you mean,” said Reff Ritter, a wise look coming into his face. “You mean for us to get the blanks and substitute them for the regular cartridges some of the fellows intend to use.”
“Exactly. Can we do it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a great scheme. I’d like to put it up Ruddy’s back – and up Ditmore’s back, too.” Ritter bit his lip in thought for a moment. “Let’s see if we can get hold of that case of cartridges anyway.”
With great care the plotters stole through the bushes and up to the rock upon which rested the case containing the blank cartridges. All of the other cadets were busy lunching and nobody noticed them as they hauled the box out of sight.
“The cover is loose, anyway,” reported Ritter. “Guess I’ll take a few out, just for luck,” and he appropriated about a dozen blanks.
“Take out the top layer,” suggested Coulter. “Then Grenwood won’t be so apt to notice that the box has been trifled with.” And he and Paxton did so. Then the cover was slid into place once more and the case was restored to its original position. The blanks certainly looked like full cartridges, being tipped with silvery paper.
“Now to do some substituting,” said Reff Ritter. “That’s the hardest part of the job. Some of the fellows are hanging around those cartridge belts and boxes.”
“Maybe we can get them to walk away,” suggested Coulter. “Get them interested in something, you know.”
“I have it!” cried Ritter. “Nick, you walk down in the woods on the other side of the brook and yell like mad. Say you saw a big snake, or something. That will draw the crowd, and then Gus and I can get in our work with the blank cartridges.”
“I’ll do it,” answered Nick Paxton, and hurried around through the bushes and across the brook. He had been gone about five minutes when the cadets at lunch, as well as Captain Putnam and the others, heard a great yelling.
“Help! help! A snake! A snake!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed half a dozen, and then, as the yelling was continued, a rush was made in the direction of the brook.
“Now is our chance,” said Ritter to Coulter, and then the pair stole out of the bushes and in the direction of the stacked arms and the cartridge belts and boxes.
“What’s the matter, Paxton?” demanded Captain Putnam, who was the first to arrive at the spot from whence the cries for help emanated.
“A snake, sir!” answered the cadet glibly. “Ugh! He ran right between my legs!” And Paxton pretended to shiver.
“A snake!” cried several.
“Where is it?”
“Why didn’t you kill it?”
“Yes, a snake, and – and I guess it was a rattler, too. It was about that long,” and Nick Paxton held his hands as far apart as possible. “I couldn’t kill it for I didn’t have a thing in my hand. I – er – I looked for a rock, but the snake