Winch glared up at him a moment,--a ludicrous picture, with that writhing face and that curious fighting-cut,--but cast down his eyes again, sulkily, and said nothing. "Come away, boys," whispered Frank. "Don't stay here, making fun of him. Why do you?" "Jack," said Ellis, "we're going to take a drink. Won't you come along with us?"--tauntingly. And the Blues dispersed, leaving poor Jack to his own bitter reflections. He had learned one thing--who his friends were. On being released, he shunned Harris and Ellis especially, for a day or two, and paid his court to Frank. "I am going to tell you something, Frank," said he, as they were once at the pond-side, washing their plates after dinner. "I'm going to leave the company." "Leave the Blues?" said Frank. "Yes, and quit the service. I've got sick of it." "But I thought you liked it so well." "Well, I did at first. It was a kind of novelty. Come, let's leave it. I will." "But how can you?" "Easy enough. I am under age, and my father 'll get me off." "I should think you would be ashamed to ask him to," Frank could not help saying, with honest contempt. Jack was not offended this time by his plainness, for he had learned that those are not, by any means, our worst friends, who truly tell us our faults. "I don't care," he said, putting on an air of recklessness. "I ain't going to lead this miserable dog's life in camp any longer, if I have to desert"--lowering his voice to a whisper; "we can desert just as easy as not, Frank, if we take a notion." "I, for one," said Frank, indignantly, "shan't take a notion to do anything so dishonorable. We enlisted of our own free will, and I think it would be the meanest and most dishonest thing we could do to----" "Hush!" whispered Jack. "There's Atwater; he'll hear us." * * * * At midnight the drummer boy was awakened by a commotion in the tent. "Come, Frank," said some one, pulling him violently, "we are going to have some great fun. Hurrah!" Frank jumped up. The boys were leaving the tent. He had already suspected that mischief was meditated, and, anxious to see what it was, he ran out after them. He found the company assembled in a dark, mysterious mass in the street before the row of tents. "Get a rope around his neck," said one. "Burn the tent," said another. "With him in it," said a third. "What does it all mean?" Frank inquired of his friend Atwater, whom he found quietly listening to the conspirators. "A little fun with the Gosling, I believe," said Atwater, with a shrug. "They'd better let him alone." "The Gosling" was the nickname which the Blues had bestowed on their captain. After a hurried consultation among the ringleaders, the company marched to the tent where the Gosling slept. Only Atwater, Frank, and a few others lingered in the rear. "I hope they won't hurt him," said Frank. "Ought we not to give the alarm?"