My Dear Boys:
This story is complete in itself, but forms the fourth in a line known under the general title of “Putnam Hall Series.”
As I have said before, this series was started at the request of numerous boys and girls who had read some volumes of my “Rover Boys Series,” and who wanted to know what had taken place at Putnam Hall Military Academy previous to the arrival there of the three Rover brothers.
In the first volume of this series, called “The Putnam Hall Cadets,” I related how Captain Putnam came to found the institution and also told of the doings of Jack Ruddy, Pepper Ditmore and their chums. The young cadets were whole-souled and full of fun, and enjoyed themselves to the utmost.
In the second volume, entitled “The Putnam Hall Rivals,” more of the doings of the cadets were chronicled, and the particulars were given of a queer balloon ride, and of an odd discovery in the woods.
The third volume, “The Putnam Hall Champions,” brought Jack and Pepper once again to the front, in a series of stirring athletic contests. They had some bitter rivals, and one of these played Jack a most foul trick, which came close to having a serious ending.
Ever since the opening of the school the scholars had had much trouble with an overbearing teacher named Josiah Crabtree. When the Hall was left in charge of Crabtree and a new instructor named Cuddle, matters rapidly grew worse, until there seemed nothing for the lads to do but to rebel. How this was done, and what the rebellion led to, I leave for the pages which follow to relate.
Once more I thank my young friends for the interest they have shown in my books. May this tale please you in every way.
Affectionately and sincerely yours,
Arthur M. Winfield.
CHAPTER I
OUT ON THE CAMPUS
“Boys, we are to have target practice to-morrow.”
“Good!” cried Pepper Ditmore. “That suits me exactly. Just wait, Jack, and see me make half a dozen bull’s-eyes, handrunning.”
“Why don’t you make it a dozen, Pep, while you are at it?” answered Major Jack Ruddy, with a smile.
“If Pep makes one bull’s-eye he will be lucky,” came from another of the cadets gathered on the Putnam Hall campus. “The last time we had practice, instead of hitting the target he almost killed a cow in the next field.”
“Hold on, Andy Snow!” cried Pepper. “I shot straight enough, but the wind blew so hard it sent the bullet the wrong way. Now if – ”
“What a pity the wind didn’t shift the target to meet the bullet,” cried Paul Singleton. “Now when I shoot – ”
“You’re too fat to shoot, Stuffer,” interrupted a youth who spoke with a strong Irish accent. “Sure, if you had to crawl up on the inimy, like in war, you’d tip over on your nose!” And at this sally from Joseph Hogan a laugh arose.
“I’d rather be fat than skinny,” retorted Paul, whose waist measurement exceeded that of any other cadet of the Hall.
“Where are we to do the practicing?” asked another boy, who was somewhat of a newcomer, having been a pupil at the Military Academy for less than a term.
“I understand we are to go to Rawling’s pasture, Fred,” answered Jack Ruddy. “Captain Putnam is going to make the test a very thorough one, too, for he says all of the students here ought to be first-class marksmen.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to know how to handle a rifle,” answered Fred Century. “I’ve used a shotgun, in the woods, but never a rifle. I’m afraid I’ll make a rather poor showing at first.”
“Many of the fellows will,” returned the young major. “It isn’t given to everybody to become a good shot, no matter how hard a fellow tries.”
While the others were talking, a big, broad-shouldered youth joined the gathering. He was Dale Blackmore, the captain of the Putnam Hall football team, and a general leader in all kinds of athletic sports.
“Talking about the rifle practice, eh,” said Dale. “I just heard the other fellows talking of it, too. One of ’em said he was going to show your crowd how to shoot,” and he nodded toward Jack Ruddy.
“Who was it?” questioned the young major.
“Reff Ritter.”
“Oh, that bully makes me tired!” cried Pepper Ditmore. “Every time anything is going on he tries to push himself to the front – and nobody wants him – at least I don’t want him.”
“Nor I,” came from Andy Snow and Paul Singleton.
“Sure, an’ I doubt if he’s any better shot nor Major Jack,” remarked Hogan.
“Not half as good, Emerald,” interposed Pepper quickly. “Jack’s a soldier through and through. If he wasn’t the fellows wouldn’t have elected him major.”
“Perhaps Reff Ritter is a good marksman,” said Jack. “He has made some fair scores and he may have been practicing up for this contest. Who was he talking to, Dale?”
“Oh, his usual crowd of hangers-on, Gus Coulter, Nick Paxton, Billy Sabine, and that bunch. Coulter thinks, too, that he can make a big score.”
“Well, I’ll bank on Jack – and on Bart Conners,” said Pepper. “Bart is a good shot and always was.”
“Say, here comes Reff Ritter now,” whispered Andy, as a youth with a somewhat sour-looking countenance put in an appearance. “Gus Coulter is with him.”
