Excerpt: '“Dear Mark: Whenever I sit down to write to you it seems to me I can think of nothing to say, but to marvel at the extraordinary rumpus you have kicked up at West Point. Every time I hear from there you are doing still more incredibly impossible acts, until I expect to hear next that you have been made superintendent or something. However, in this letter I really have something else to tell you about, but I shall put it off to the last and keep you in suspense. “Well, I hear that, not satisfied with defying the yearlings to haze you, and actually keeping them from doing it, which is something no plebe has ever dared to dream of before, you have gone on to still further recklessness. They say that you have gotten half a dozen other plebes to back you up, and that, to cap the climax, you actually dared to go to one of the hops. Well, I do not know what to say to that; it simply takes my breath away. I should like to have been there to see him doing it. They say that Grace Fuller, the girl you saved from drowning, got all the girls to promise to dance with you, and that the end of the whole business was the yearlings stopped the music and the hop and left in disgust. I fairly gasp when I picture that scene. “I hesitate to give an original person like you advice. You never heeded what I gave you anyway, but went right ahead in your own contrariness to do what you pleased. I guess you were right. But I want to warn you a little. By your unheard-of daring in going to that hop you have incurred the enmity of not only the yearlings, whom you have beaten at every turn, but also of the powerful first class as well. And they will never stop until they subdue you. I don’t know what they’ll try, but it will be something desperate, and you must stand the consequences. You’ll probably have to take turns fighting every man in the class. When I come back I expect to find you buried six feet deep in court-plaster.”'