Harry Castlemon - Don Gordon's Shooting-Box

“You are a stranger here,” said Clarence, “and as we know you must be lonely we will introduce you to the boys in our set, if you would like to know them.”

“You will find them all tip-top fellows,” added Tom. “You see, there is a little crowd of us who run together, and somehow we manage to have good times. There are some boys here, however, with whom we never have anything to do. We will point them out to you as fast as we can, so that you can steer clear of them.”

“They are high-toned lads,” said Clarence, “and won’t associate with any but the members of their own class. Some of them are preparing for West Point. They pride themselves on being soldiers all over; and if they can’t prove their soldierly qualities in any other way, they will report somebody.”

“Where’s your brother?” asked Tom, suddenly.

Don replied that he didn’t know where he was.

“I rather fancied that he didn’t exactly like what we said about running the guard a while ago,” continued Tom. “Did he?”

“No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”

“Well, then, he can make up his mind to be gated on an average of once a month as long as he stays here; for no matter how hard he tries, he can’t help breaking some of the rules. If he has a mind to submit to confinement – why, that’s his business and not mine.”

“I haven’t done it since I have been here,” said Fisher, emphatically; “and, what’s more, I won’t.”

“Where do you go when you run the guard?”

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