The president of this court-martial called it promptly to order. The members of the court were sworn, then the judge-advocate took his military oath. It was then announced that the accused cadet wished to have Lieutenant Topham represent him as counsel. To this there was no objection.

In a twinkling the judge-advocate was again on his feet, a copy of the charge and specifications in his hand.

Facing the president of the court, standing rigidly at attention, his face expressionless, his bearing every whit that of the soldier, Cadet Richard Prescott listened to the reading of the accusation of dishonor.

In an impressive tone the president of the court asked what plea the accused cadet wished to enter.

"The accused offers, to the charge and specifications, a blanket plea of 'not guilty,'" replied Lieutenant Topham.

Captain Abbott was first called and sworn. In concise, soldierly language the instructor told the events of the preceding Friday forenoon. He described the dropping of the slip of paper, and of his request that it be handed to him. "The paper," continued the witness, "contained a crude, brief outline of the demonstration which Mr. Prescott had just explained so satisfactorily that I had marked him 2.9."

"Which is within one tenth of the highest marking?" suggested the judge-advocate.

"Yes, sir."

"Had you noted anything in Mr. Prescott conduct or performance at the blackboard that indicated any uncertainty, at any time, about the problem he was demonstrating?"

"When he had gone a little way with the writing down of the demonstration," replied Captain Abbott, "Mr. Prescott hesitated for some moments, then asked permission to erase, which was given."

"Did he then go straight ahead with his work?"

"To the best of my observation and remembrance, he did, sir."

"Had Mr. Prescott been doing well previously?" asked the judge-advocate.

"Only during the last week, sir. During the last week he displayed such a new knowledge and interest in mathematics that I was prepared, on his last week's marks, to recommend that he ascend two sections in his class."

"Is it not true, Captain, that Mr. Prescott, in the last week, showed such a sudden, new proficiency as might be accounted for by the possibility that he had then begun to carry written 'cribs' to the class?

"His progress last week was such as might be accounted for by that supposition," replied the witness reluctantly.

"That is all, Captain."

Lieutenant Topham then took the witness in hand, but did not succeed in bringing out anything that would aid the cause of the accused cadet.

"Cadet Dunstan!" called the judge-advocate.

Dunstan stepped forward and was sworn. He had testified that, during the blackboard work, he had stood beside Mr. Prescott. Dunstan was positive that he had not seen any slip of paper in Prescott's hands.

"Did you look his way often, Mr. Dunstan

"Not directly, sir; I was busy with my own work."

"Yet, had Mr. Prescott had a slip of paper held slyly in either hand, do you think you would have seen it?

"I am positive that I would, sir," replied Cadet Dunstan.

Under the questioning of Lieutenant Topham, Dunstan stated that he had witnessed Prescott's loan of his handkerchief to Dodge before the sections formed to march to mathematics section room.

"In what condition, or shape, did Mr. Dodge return Mr. Prescott's handkerchief?" ask Lieutenant Topham.

"The handkerchief was crumpled up, sir."

"So that, had there been a paper folded in it, the paper very likely would not have been visible?"

"The paper most likely would not have been visible, sir."

"In what form was the handkerchief handed to Mr. Dodge by Mr. Prescott?"

"I am almost certain, sir, that Mr. Prescott passed it holding it by one corner."

"So that, had there been any paper in it at that time, it would have fallen to the ground?"

"Yes sir."

"What did Mr. Prescott do with the handkerchief when it was returned to him."

"My recollection, sir, is that Mr. Prescott took his handkerchief without examining it, and thrust it into his blouse."

"Are you sure that he did so?"

"I cannot state it with absolute certainty, sir. It is my best recollection, sir."

Bert Dodge had sat through this testimony trying to look unconcerned. Yet around the corners of his mouth played a slight, greenish pallor. The testimony of the cadets had not been looked for to be very important. Now, however, the president of the court regretted that he had not excluded from the room all of three cadet witnesses except the one under examination.

Cadet Gray was next called. He was able to testify only that, while at the blackboard, Mr. Dunstan had stood on one side of Cadet Prescott and the present witness on the other side. Mr. Gray was strongly of the belief that, had Prescott been slyly using a written crib, he (Gray) would have noted the fact. Mr. Gray had not been a witness to the handkerchief-loaning incident before formation of sections.

"Cadet Dodge!"

Dodge rose and came forward with a distinct swagger. He was plainly conscious of the cadet corporal's chevrons on his sleeve, and plainly regarded himself as a superior type of cadet. He was sworn and questioned about the handkerchief-borrowing incident.

He admitted the borrowing of the handkerchief to wipe a smear of dirt from the back of his hand. As to the condition of the handkerchief at the time of its return, Mr. Dodge stated his present belief that the handkerchief was very loosely rolled up.

Then Lieutenant Topham took the witness over.

"Would the handkerchief, when you handed it back, have held this slip of paper?" questioned Mr. Topham, holding up the slip that had brought about all of Prescott's present trouble.

"It might have, sir, had the paper been crumpled as well."

"Did you hand the handkerchief back with a paper inside of it?"

"Not according to any knowledge of mine, sir."

"Was there a paper in the handkerchief, Mr. Dodge, when Mr. Prescott passed his handkerchief to you?"

"To the best of my belief, sir, there was not."

"Now, pay particular heed, if you please Mr. Dodge," requested Lieutenant Topham, fixing his gaze keenly on the witness. Dodge tried not to look apprehensive. "Did you have any paper in your hand while you had Mr. Prescott's handkerchief in your own possession?"

"No, sir," replied Dodge with emphasis.

"Did you, knowingly, pass the handkerchief back to the accused cadet with any paper inside of it, or touching it in any way?"

"No, sir!"

Lieutenant Topham continued for some seconds to regard Mr. Dodge in silence. The witness began to lose some of his swagger. Then, abruptly, as though firing a pistol, Lieutenant Topham shot out the question:

"How about that smear of dirt on your hand, Mr. Dodge? How did it come to be on the back of your hand?"

If Mr. Topham had looked to this question to break the witness down he was doomed to disappointment.

"I do not know, sir," Dodge replied distinctly. "I am of the opinion, sir, that it must have come from the blacking on one of my shoes as I put it on before leaving my room."

There was no more to be gained from Dodge. He was excused. Now, Dick Prescott rose a was sworn, that he might testify in his own behalf. Yet he could do no more, under the military rules of evidence, than to deny any guilty knowledge of the slip of paper, and to repeat the handkerchief-loaning recital substantially as Dunstan had given it.

This closed the testimony. The president of the court announced that a recess of ten minutes would be taken, and that the room and gallery would be cleared of all except members of the court and the counsel for the accused.

As Dick turned to leave, he again turned his face toward the gallery. He saw his Gridley friends and looked bravely into their eyes, smiling. Then he caught sight of a veiled woman up there, who had risen, and was moving out. Dicks started; he could not help it, there was something so strangely familiar in that figure and carriage.

The cadet witnesses had already left, and we returning to barracks. Lieutenant Topham touched Prescott's arm and walked with him to the corridor.

"I shall do my best for you, you may be sure, Mr. Prescott," whispered the cavalry officer.

"May I ask, sir, what you think of the chances?

"Candidly, it looks to me like almost an even toss-up between conviction and acquittal."

Dick's face blanched. Then he turned, with starts The veiled woman was moving toward him with uncertain steps.

"Lieutenant Topham, I did not know my mother was to be present, but I am almost positive that is she."

Now, the veiled woman came a few steps nearer, looking appealingly at Dick.

"I am told, sir, that my son is in close arrest," she called, in a voice that thrilled the cadet. "But I am his mother. May I speak with him a moment?"

Mother and son were clasped in each other's arms for a moment. What they said matters little. Then Cadet Richard Prescott returned to his bleak room in barracks.



CHAPTER XVI

A VERDICT AND A HOP

Then followed days full of suspense for many besides the accused cadet.

Prescott went mechanically at his studies, with a dogged determination to get high markings in everything.

Yet over mathematics more than anything, he pored. He fought out his problems in the section room grimly, bent on showing that he could win high marks without the aid of "cribs."

He was still in arrest, and must remain so until the finding of the court-martial—-whatever it was—-had been duly considered at Washington and returned with the President's indorsement. All this time Dick's mother and three faithful Gridley friends remained at the West Point Hotel. Dick could not go to them; they could not come to him, but notes might pass. Prescott received these epistles daily, and briefly but appreciatively answered them.

Then he went back furiously to his studies.

Grit could do him little good, except in his studies, if he were fated to remain at West Point. Grit could not help him in the settling of his fate. Either the court-martial had found him guilty, or had found him innocent, and all the courage in the world would not alter the verdict.

In the section room in mathematics, Captain Abbott did not show this cadet any disfavor or the opposite. The instructor's manner and tone with Prescott were the same as with all the other cadets.

When going to formations some of the cadets rather openly avoided Prescott. This cut like a knife. But evidently they believed him probably guilty, and they were entitled to their opinions. He must possess himself with patience for a few days; there was nothing else to do.

So the week rolled around again to Saturday. Now here were two afternoons when the young cadet might have gone to his mother and friends at the hotel, had he not been in arrest. There was to be a hop that night, but he could not "drag" the girl who had been so staunch and sweet.

On this Saturday, when he need not study much, Dick found himself in a dull rage with his helplessness. The day was bright, clear, cold and sunny, but the young cadet's soul was dark and moody. Would this suspense never end?

Dinner was to him merely another phase of duty. He had no real appetite; he would have preferred to sit brooding at his study table.

The meal over, the battalion marched back, halting, still in formation, at the north side of barracks near the sally-port.

The cadet captain in command of the battalion read some unimportant notices. Dick did not even hear them. He knew his fate was not to come to him through this channel.

While the reading was going on the Adjutant of the Military Academy came through the sally-port leisurely, as soon as he saw that the men were still in ranks.

Dick did not see the Adjutant, either. If he had, he might hardly have heeded the presence of that Army officer, the personal representative of the superintendent.

But, just as the cadet captain let fall the hand in which he had held the notices the adjutant called out crisply:

"Don't dismiss, Captain! Hold the companies!"

Between two of the companies stepped the adjutant, then walked to the front of center. Drawing, a paper from his overcoat, the adjutant began to read. It was a "special order."

Even to this Prescott listened only with unhearing ears—-at first.

Then, though he betrayed no more audible interest than did any of the other men in gray, Dick Prescott found his head swimming.

This special order referred to his own case. It was a report of the findings, these findings having been duly approved.

Cadet Richard Prescott's head began to whirl. The bright day seemed darkening before his dimmed vision, until he heard, unmistakably, the one word:

"Acquitted!"

What followed was a further order releasing him from arrest and restoring him to the usual cadet privileges.

"That is all, Captain," added the adjutant, folding the order and returning it to his overcoat. "Dismiss the companies when ready."

"Dismiss the companies!" came from the cadet battalion commander.

The separate commands of the various company commanders rang out. Ranks were broken—-and friends in gray crowded about the yearling.

Then the corps yell was called for and given, with his name added. Some of the cadets slipped in through the sally-port, sooner than join in the demonstration.

"Thank you all—-it's jolly good of you!" cried Prescott huskily.

As soon as these comrades in arms would let him, he broke through and made for his room.

"Hooray!" yelled Greg, turning loose.

And Cadet Anstey thrust his head into the room long enough to add:

"Hooray!"

But Dick, half stripped above the waist, was at the washstand, making a thorough toilet, though a hurried one.

Greg waited, his eyes shining.

"It's mighty good of you all," cried Dick, as he was pulling on his cadet overcoat. "I wish I could stop and talk about it—-but there a duties that can't be hurried fast enough."

"Give my regards," called Holmes jovially after Prescott.

Crossing the barracks area, Dick strode into cadet guard-house, nimbly mounting the stairs to the second floor. Here he stood in the office of the O.C.

Saluting, he carefully phrased his request for leave to visit friends at the hotel.

This being granted, Dick went down the stairs at the greatest speed consistent with military dignity under the circumstances.

Out through the north sally-port and along the road running between officers' quarters and parade ground he hurried.

By the time he had walked to the hotel he had cooled off his first excitement somewhat.

He signed in the cadet register, then laid down his card.

"To Mrs. Prescott, please."

As ebony-visaged "front" vanished from the office, Dick turned and walked to the ladies' entrance, passing thence into the parlor.

Dick's mother was found at the dining table. So were her Gridley friends. All were finishing a light meal without appetite when the card was laid by Mrs. Prescott's plate.

"My boy, Dick—-here?" she cried brokenly rising as quickly as she could.

Mrs. Prescott passed quickly from the dining room, though her friends were close at her heels. So they all rushed in upon the solitary young cadet standing inside the parlor by a window.

As he heard them coming, Dick wheeled about. There was a tear in his eye, which deceived them.

Halting, a few feet away, these eager ones stared at him.

Dick tried to greet them in words, but he couldn't at first.

It was Laura who found her voice first.

"Dick! Tell us in a word!"

But Belle Meade gave Miss Bentley a somewhat vigorous push forward.

"Use your eyes, Laura!" rebuked Belle vigorously. "In the first place, Mr. Prescott is here. That means he's here by permission or right. In the second place, you ninny—-he still has the uniform on!"

"That's right," laughed Dick. "Yes, mother, and friends, the court-martial's finding was wholly favorable to me."

"Humph!" demanded Belle scornfully. "Why shouldn't it be? Wouldn't you expect thirteen old West Point graduates to know as much as four women from the country?"

Belle's hearty nonsense put an end to all tension.

Mrs. Prescott met and embraced her son. The others crowded about, offering congratulations.

That night Dick and Greg "dragged" the Gridley girls to the cadet hop at Cullum, and Anstey was a favored one on the hop cards of both girls. Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Bentley looked on from the gallery.

"It's the jolliest hop I've been to," declared Dick with enthusiasm.

"Humph!" muttered Holmes. "Of course it is. You old boner, you've never been but to three hops!

"I understand," teased Belle, "that you're much more of a veteran, Mr. Holmes, than your chum is."

Cadet Dodge "missed" that hop.



CHAPTER XVII

"A LIAR AND A COWARD"

Long, indeed, did the memory of that hop linger with Cadet Dick Prescott.

It had come as the fitting, cheering ending of his great trouble—-the hardest trouble that had assailed him, or could assail him, at the United States Military Academy.

"Well, you've been vindicated, anyway," muttered Greg cheerily, one day. "So you needn't look as thoughtful as you do half of the time these present days."

"Have I been vindicated, Greg?" asked Dick gravely.

"What did the court say? And you're still wearing the uniform that Uncle Sam gave you, aren't you?

"Vindication, Greg, means something more that a court-martial verdict of acquittal."

"What more do you want?"

"Greg, the verdicts of all the courts-martial sitting between here and Manila wouldn't make some of the men of this corps believe that I innocent."

"G'wan!" retorted Cadet Holmes impatiently.

"I see it, Greg, old chum, if you don't."

"You're morbid, old ramrod!"

"Greg, you know the cheery greeting, in passing, that one man here often gives another when he likes and trusts that man. Well, some of own classmates that used to give me the glad hail seem to be thinking about something else, now, when they pass me."

"Who are they?" demanded Greg, his fists doubling.

"You'd provoke a fight, if I told you," retorted Dick. "This isn't a matter to fight about."

"Then you don't know much about fighting subjects," grumbled Cadet Holmes, as he leaned back and opened his book of everlasting mathematics.

"Let me see, Greg; have you any show to get out of the goats in math.?"

"I'm in hopes to get out and step into the next section above," replied Greg. "I've been working hard enough."

"Then you'd better waste no thoughts on pugilism. Calculus will bring you more happiness."

"Calculus was never designed to bring anyone happiness," retorted Greg sulkily. "It's a torment invented on purpose to harrow the souls of cadets. What good, any way, will calculus ever be to an officer who has a platoon of men to lead in a charge on the enemy?"

This could not very well be answered, so Dick dodged the subject.

"Remember the January exams., old fellow," warned Dick. "And the general review begins Monday. That will show you up, if you don't keep your nose in math. and out of books on the Queensbury rules."

"Funny how Bert Dodge keeps up in mathematics, and yet takes in all the pleasures he can find," rumbled on Greg, as he turned the pages of his book, seeking what he wanted. "Dodge is in the section just under the stars, and I hear he has dreams of being in the star section after the January ordeals."

"Dodge always was a rather good student at Gridley High School" rejoined Prescott.

"But he never led our class there in the High School mathematics, which is baby's play compared with West Point math."

"Well, he gets the marks now," sighed Dick. "I wish we could, too."

The academic part of the cadet's year is divided into two halves. The first half winds up in January. During the last few weeks before the period for the winter examination, there is a general review in some of the subjects, notably in mathematics. This general review brings out all of a man's weak points in his subject. Incidentally, it should strengthen him in his weak points.

Now, if, in the general review, a cadet shows sufficient proficiency in his subject, he is not required to take the examination. If he fails in the general review in mathematics, he must go up for a "writ," as a written examination is termed. And that writ is cruelly searching. If the young man fails in the "writ," he may be conditioned and required to make up his deficiencies in June. If, in June, he fails to make up all deficiencies, he is dropped from the cadet corps as being below the mental standards required of a West Point graduate.

Neither Dick nor Greg stood high enough in mathematics to care to go on past January conditioned. Both felt that, with conditions extending over to the summer, they must fail in June.

"I'd sooner have my funeral held tomorrow than drop out of West Point," Greg stated.

Prescott, while not making that assertion, knew that it would blast his dearest hopes life if he had to go down in the academic battle.

Dodge, who was so high in mathematics that he need have little fear, was circulating a good deal among his classmates these days before Christmas.

"That hound, Prescott, made a slick dodge to drag me into his disgrace," Dodge declared, to those whom he thought would be interest in such remarks. "It was a clever trick! couldn't put me in disgrace, for there is no breach of regulations in borrowing a handkerchief for a moment. But Prescott made so much of that handkerchief business that it served his purpose and dragged him out safely before the court."

"Do you think Prescott was really guilty of a crib?" asked one of Dodge's hearers.

"I can't prove it, but I know what I think," retorted Dodge. "His effort to draw me into the row shows what kind of a fellow he is at bottom."

"I'd hate to think that Prescott would really be mean enough for a crib."

"Think what you like, then, of course. But a fellow guilty of one meanness might not stop at others."

Dodge talked much in this vein. Cadets are not tale-bearers, and so little or none of this talk reached Dick's ears until Furlong came along, one day, in time to hear Dodge holding forth on his favorite subject.

Yearling Furlong halted, eyeing Cadet Dodge sternly, keenly.

"Well," demanded Dodge, "what's wrong?"

"I don't know exactly," replied Furlong, with a quizzical smile. "I think, though, that the basic error lay in your ever having been born at all."

Dodge tried to laugh it off as a pleasantry. He had met Furlong once, in a fight, and had no desire to be sent to cadet hospital again with blackened eyes.

"I don't want to mind other people's business, Dodge," continued Furlong coolly, "but you're going a bit too far, it seems to me, in what you say about Prescott. Why should you seek to blacken the character of one of our best fellows, and the president of our class?"

"Because he tried to blacken mine," retorted Dodge boldly.

"He didn't. All he did, at the court-martial, was to explain the adventures of his handkerchief just before that piece of paper fell to the floor of the section room."

"Wasn't that an insinuation against me?" demanded Cadet Dodge.

"Not unless your character here is on such a very poor foundation that it can't stand any suspicions," replied Furlong coldly. "Now, see here, Dodge, the general review is on, and Prescott can't spare any time on private rows. After the general review is over, if I hear any more about your roasting Prescott, I'm going to call on you to go with me to Prescott's presence, and repeat your statements to his face. I don't want to stir up any needless personal trouble, Dodge, but I declare myself now as one of old ramrod's friends. Any slander against him must be backed up. I trust you will pardon my having been so explicit."

Furlong turned on his heel, striding away. The cadets to whom Dodge had been talking bitterly looked at Bert curiously. A good many men in the corps would have promptly resented such remarks as Furlong's, and to the limit, by calling him out.

"Queer how many friends, of some kinds, a fellow like Prescott can have," laughed Dodge sneeringly.

"Not at all," spoke up one of Dodge's listeners. "Everyone always knows where Prescott stands, and he'll back up anything he says. Furlong is another man of the same stamp."

With that the last speaker turned on his heel and walked away.

For some days after that, Bert Dodge was more careful of his utterances.

The general reviews came and passed. By sheer hard, undistracted work, both Dick and Greg succeeded in pulling through without having to go up for writs. For some reason Dodge did not do quite as well in the general review, and was forced to drop down a couple of sections. He still stood well, however, in math.

In the next week after the dangerous examination period Dick Prescott began to forge upwards in mathematics. He was now in the section fourth removed from the goats, and Greg was up in the section next above the goats.

On the afternoon of the Friday when the markings had been posted Dodge met Dennison, also of the yearling class.

"Say, what do you think, Dodge, of Prescott beginning to shoot up through the sections toward you? He'll soon be marching at your side when math. is called."

"He'll bear watching," nodded Dodge sagely.

"That's what I feel about it," replied Dennison.

"Prescott isn't the kind of man who can climb high in mathematics, and do it honestly," continued Dodge. "Either he has the old crib at work again, or has hit on a safer way of working crib."

"Of course he has," nodded Dennison. "We ought to post the class—-especially Prescott own section comrades. They can catch him, if they're sharp, and then pass the word through the class without bothering the authorities. If Prescott is doing such things he must be driven from West Point."

"He will be—-see if he isn't," retorted Bert sullenly. "I'm going to pass the word to the class."

"And I'll post the men in the same section with him," promised Dennison.

"Why not post Prescott first?" demanded a cold voice. A cadet had halted behind the pair.

"Oh, you, Furlong?" snarled Dodge, turning.

"Yes," replied Cadet Furlong. "And I told you, on a former occasion, what I thought about back-biters."

"Be careful, Furlong!" warned Dennison angrily.

"At your service, sir, any time," coolly replied Furlong, though he was a head shorter than Dennison, who was one of the big athletes of the yearling class.

"But the class ought to know some truths," retorted Dodge harshly.

"Here comes some of the class now," replied Furlong, as seven yearlings, on their way back from the library, turned in at the sally-port. "Tell them for a start, Dodge, and I'll listen. Hold on there, fellows. Oh, you there, Prescott? That's lucky. Dodge has some 'facts' he thinks the class ought to know, and I want you to hear them. Now, Dodge, turn around and repeat what you were just saying."

There was no help for it. Dodge had to speak up, or be considered a cur that bit only in the dark.

So, with a show of defiance, Dodge spoke hotly giving a very fair repetition of what he had lately said. Prescott stood by, his fists clenched, his face white, but without interrupting or making any move.

"Now, state what you said, Mr. Dennison," requested Furlong coldly.

Thus cornered, Dennison, too, had to state truthfully what he had just been saying.

There was a pause.

Some of the yearlings looked straight ahead. Others glanced curiously at the principals in this little drama of cadet life. None of them took Furlong to be anything more than the stage manager.

"Have you said all you have to say, Mr. Dodge?" demanded Cadet Prescott.

"Yes," flared Bert.

"Have you anything that you wish to add, Mr. Dennison?" demanded Dick, wheeling upon his other foe in the corps.

"Nothing more, at present," replied Dennison coolly. He realized how much bigger and more powerful he was than Dick Prescott.

"Then, as for you, Mr. Dodge," continued Prescott, fixing his old-time enemy with a cold eye, "you're a liar and a coward!"

Dodge doubled his fists, springing forward, but two of the yearlings caught him and dragged him back, for old ramrod's back was already turned. Dick was eyeing his other detractor.

"You, Mr. Dennison," continued Prescott, "are a dirty scandal-monger, a back-biter and a source of danger to the honor of the cadet corps!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIGHT IN BARRACKS

"Let go of me!" roared Dennison, as two men held him. "Let me at that——-"

"Any name that you would see fit to call me, Dennison, wouldn't sting," retorted Dick. "You have forfeited the right to have your opinion considered a gentleman's."

"Don't you ever call names?" hissed Dennison.

"Only to the faces of the men to whom the names are applied," retorted Dick.

"And that's right," agreed Furlong heartily. "We've been classmates nearly two years, and I've heard old ramrod say disagreeable things, once or twice, behind men's backs. But it was never until after he had said the same thing to the man's face."

"This isn't fair," fussed Dennison, "to hold me back after I've been insulted."

By this time, half a dozen more cadets had stopped. Three of the newest comers were yearlings, one was a second classman and two were first classmen.

"Will you let me act as one of your friends, old ramrod?" asked Cadet Furlong.

"I think you've proved your right, on this and other occasions," laughed Dick quietly. "Go ahead, please, Milesy."

"This is not place for a fight," continued Furlong, "and this crowd had better break up, or we shall be seen and there'll be an inquiry from the tactical department. As Prescott's friend, I will say that he is prepared to give full satisfaction to both men. In fact, if they didn't demand it, he would."

Before so many, Bert Dodge had to appear brave.

"I demand the first meeting for satisfaction," Bert insisted.

"And I think you may count on getting the first meeting," nodded Furlong coolly. "Now, Mr. Dodge, to whom shall I look as your friend?"

"Let me act!" begged Dennison hoarsely.

"Go ahead, Dennison," replied Dodge, who felt that he would draw some comfort from having this big athlete of the class for a backer. "Now, break up, please, gentlemen," begged Furlong. "We don't want and wind of this to blow to official quarters. Dennison, I invite you to come to my room."

Like soldiers dismissed from ranks, the sudden gathering in the sally-port dispersed. Dick went on to his own quarters.

"Now, that's what I call huge!" chuckled Greg Holmes, as soon as he heard the news. "But see here, old ramrod, I'm to be your other second?"

"Of course," nodded Dick.

"Then I'm off for Furlong's room at once. And again—-hooray!"

There being nothing to prevent a prompt meeting, it was arranged to take place that evening at 8.30. In the subdivision where Furlong lived there was an empty room up on the plebe floor.

Sharp to the minute of 8.30 the men were at hand. Packard, of the first class, had agreed to act as referee. Maitland, second class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners, stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's other second.

Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm, though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active.

"Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking. Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"Ready!" quivered Dodge.

"Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips.

"Time!"

Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence.

It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him.

Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge's eye, mockery in Dick's.

The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to cheer. There was little of foot work, little of getting away. It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled both men to draw back.

They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came.

Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded, fanned. A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting trim from such mauling as had been exchanged.

"Time!"

Biff, bump, pound!

It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had to be met. Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso.

Just before the close of the second round Prescott thought he saw his chance. Feinting with his left, he drove in a hook with his right, aimed for Bert's nose.

It touched, instead, on the lip, not a hard blow, but a tantalizing one. As the men drew back at the call of time a blotch of red was seen on Bert's lower lip. When he came back for the third round, that lip was puffing fast.

"Third round, time!"

Again Bert Dodge started in with his heavy body tactics. But this time Dick himself changed the style. With swift, clever foot-work he danced all around his now furious opponent. Dodge could follow the swift style, too, however, and defended himself, finally coming back with the assault.

Half way through the round Dick received a sharp tap on his nose that brought the red. Stung, Prescott became only the cooler. For some time he fought for the opening that he wanted, and got it at last, though Dodge's guarding left prevented the blow from landing with quite all the force with which it had been driven.

Dick's middle knuckles raked that already swollen lip, but the lower knuckles landed against the tip of Dodge's jaw with a force which, while not complete, nevertheless sent Bert to the floor, where he lay on his side.

"One, two, three, four——-" began Maitland, his gaze on the slipping second hand of his watch.

"Take the full count, Bert!" warned Dennison.

"Nine, ten!" finished Maitland.

In that instant Dodge was on his feet again, head down and working with great caution.

"Time!"

The third round ended ere Prescott could put in any finishing touches. Yet, under the skillful hands of his seconds, Dodge came up rather smilingly at the call for the opening of the fourth.

There was almost murder in Dodge's eyes now. He felt that he was the better man, and yet he had been getting slightly the worst of it so far. But he would show them!

Yet, after forty seconds of this work, when Dodge had just let fly a blow intended to land over Prescott's heart, his fist touched only air and he lurched forward. In the same instant Dick swung a smashing blow on Bert's left ear. Bert went down, lying there like a log.

In the silence that followed the finish of the count, and the referee's awarding words, Dick Prescott's voice broke in, as soft and cool as ever:

"In fifteen minutes, Mr. Dennison, I'll be ready for you!"



CHAPTER XIX

MR. DENNISON'S TURN IS SERVED

Furlong sprang forward to protest.

"See here, old ramrod, don't be foolish."

"I can handle it as well tonight as at any time," Dick laughed as coolly as ever.

"But you've taken a lot of punishment."

"Fifteen minutes is all I need, with seconds like you and Greg."

"Will it be fair to yourself, Prescott?" demanded Packard.

"Wholly," replied Dick unconcernedly.

"Let him alone," urged Greg. "Old ramrod always knows what he's doing."

"I'm not sure that we can get Dodge out of here and attended to, and be already for the start in fifteen minutes," replied Packard.

"Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five," insisted Dick. "Whatever time is necessary, so that we start in time to be through before taps."

"What do you say, Dennison?" asked Packard.

"I? Oh, I'll be ready," grinned the athlete.

"Will you serve Dennison?" asked Packard, turning to Nelson

"Yes; of course."

"Then, Nelson, confer with Dennison and see whom he wants to serve with you. The rest of us will work over Dodge. Whew! Look that ear puff up while you watch it!"

"Beauty, isn't it?" asked Greg grimly. "It will be a cauliflower decoration, all right."

Nelson went scurrying, soon returning with Anderson. Any yearling would gladly have served tonight, in order to see what doughty Dick Prescott would do against his second man in the same evening. With Nelson and Anderson came two other yearlings who had agreed to see Dodge safely to the door of cadet hospital.

Bert Dodge had been brought around at last. He was a bit dazed, but he grinned, as he went out, when Dennison murmured in his ear:

"Never you mind, old man. I'll take care of Prescott. I'll twist the ramrod into a figure 8."

"We must proceed as promptly as possible, gentlemen," rapped out Mr. Packard. "We must be finished before taps."

"Dennison will be finished, by that time," muttered Greg in a cheerful undertone.

Holmes had never provoked a senseless fight. He was good-natured almost to a fault. Yet, when a fight became inevitable, Greg could act as principal or second with equal cheeriness.

Nelson had brought back with him togs for Dennison, and that athlete was quickly ready.

Every minute of the time had been utilized well in getting, Dick Prescott in condition for his second scrap of the evening. His nose-bleed had been stopped, but it was wind and lung power that he wanted most. He had taken some heavy body thumping, but rest and rubbing had worked out most of the soreness.

"Get up and kick a bit. See what you can do," advised Furlong.

Dick went through a few irregular gymnastics.

"There's one good thing about old ramrod," declared Greg, in a grinning undertone. "He's always ready, every minute of the time!"

Sharply, quickly, now, the combatants were brought face to face.

At the call of time, Dennison sailed in; Dick leaped forward. Dennison was amused, more than half contemptuous over the easiness of the work that he thought had come to him. But he felt in honor bound to make the thing short. In the first place, he had to avenge Dodge. In the second place, it would reflect upon himself if Dennison allowed Prescott to string the battle out.

Some sharp cracks were given and taken, and many more dodged or struck aside, when, up close to the end of the first round, Prescott landed one between the big fellow's eyes that made him see stars.

Right in close Prescott followed, before his opponent could recover.

But the time-keeper's call prevented further doings.

"He's a mosquito, that's all," growled Denison to Nelson, in the corner.

"Go in and swat him, then," grinned Nelson.

"Watch me!"

"Remember, then, that skeeters are dodgers."

"I'll saw him off, this time," grumbled the big fellow.

The call of time brought both men forward.

But Dick, the same quiet smile on his face, had planned new tactics with Furlong during that minute's rest.

Now, Dick struck Dennison, not very heavily, on the right shoulder. The next time it was a tap on the right chest.

Dennison strove to resent these indignities, but Prescott had a definite plan of sustained assault, and the big fellow could not read it in advance.

Twice Dick got caught by swings, though he was not sadly troubled. He was lanching in, lightly, all over the less vital parts on his man now. It did Dennison no harm, but the impudence of it stung the big fellow.

"Time!"

"That's the b.j.-est skeeter I ever saw," grinned Nelson, as he sprayed water over Dennison's biceps.

"You quit, Nelse!"

"All right. Don't get mad at me. Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!"

Again the men were called to the center of the room. They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business.

On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there. Dennison's effort was to swing in one hard, sufficient blow.

Just thirty-five seconds from the start of the round Dick found his opportunity, and took it. His right smashed in fearfully on the end of the big fellow's jaw bone, just under the ear.

Bump! Dennison's big, muscular body hit the floor like the falling of a tree. Maitland counted, for he knew the big fellow couldn't rise in ten seconds after a blow like that.

"Nine, ten," finished the time-keeper, and dropped his watch into his pocket.

"I award the fight to Mr. Prescott," announced Packard. "Now, what are we going to do with this big hulk?"

That was a problem. It would hardly do to take another cadet to hospital that night. Anyway Dennison would need a stretcher, and four cadets to carry him, for he still lay on the floor in a stupor, from which the usual methods of reviving a man after a knockout failed to bring him.

It was just ten minutes before taps when Dennison was finally brought around and helped to his feet.

"Where's Prescott?" asked Dennison, after he had gulped down a glass of water.

"Here," answered Dick, stepping forward.

"Prescott, I don't suppose I'm very clear headed yet," rambled on Dennison. "But I want to apologize for my words this afternoon. And—-I'm glad you whacked me right tonight. Perhaps I'll really learn something from it. But my apologies, anyway."

"Say no more," begged Dick, tendering his hand. "It is all forgotten."

Dick received hasty congratulations from the late officials of the fights. Then they, and Prescott and his friends, disappeared quickly to quarters. Dennison was helped to his room. When the subdivision inspectors went through with their bulls-eye lanterns immediately after taps, they found all present save Cadet Albert Dodge.

Dodge passed a painful couple of hours until opiates won out and he passed into drugged sleep.

In one respect Dodge got far less out of the fight than had Dennison. Bert had not even learned, convincingly, that Prescott was a man to let alone.



CHAPTER XX

A DISCOVERY AT THE RIDING DRILL

Having once got a hard gait in mathematics, Dick went steadily on and up until he reached one of the middle sections. There he stopped. It was as high as he could go, with all this competition from the brightest young men in the country.

Greg, too, managed to get well away from the goats, and so was happy.

Through the winter the yearlings, in detachments, had attended the riding hall regularly during the afternoons.

Most of the men, as spring came along, had proven themselves very good cadet horsemen, though all would have chance to learn more during the two years yet ahead of them.

Dodge, who rode in the same detachment with Dick and Greg, was credited with being the poorest rider in the class.

"When you get to be an officer, Mr. Dodge, you'll have to take the yearly walking test for three days. You'll get over the ground quicker and safer than you would on a horse," remarked the cadet corporal.

"Oh, well, sir, I'm going into the doughboys, anyway," grinned Dodge. "It will be a good many years before I can get up far enough in the line to be called upon to ride a horse."

The "doughboys" are the United States Infantry. No company officer in the infantry mounted; only the field and staff officers of the doughboys are provided with mounts.

One cloudy Friday afternoon Cadet Corporal Haskins marched a yearling detachment down to the riding hall. Captain Hall, their instructor, was already in saddle. He turned to receive the report of Haskins after the detachment had been halted at the edge of the tan-bark.

"Stand to horse!" ordered Captain Hall.

The men of the detachments sprang over, each leading out his mount for the afternoon.

"Prepare to mount!"

Instantly each young man stood with one foot in stirrup, one hand at the animal's mane, and one at saddle.

"Mount!"

In perfect unison the yearling cadets swung themselves up into saddle, their right feet searching for and then resting in the stirrup boxes.

Then, at the command, Haskins led his men out in single file. Thus they circled the riding hall twice at a walk.

"Trot!" came Captain Hall's command.

A few rounds of this was followed by the command, "gallop!" Around and around the hall the cadets rode, every man but one feeling the blood tingling with new life through his arteries. It was glorious to stride a horse and to ride at this gait!

Glorious, that is, for all except one man. Dodge rode at the tail end of the line, on a fiend of a horse that had proven disastrous to more than one green rider.

As the "gallop" was ordered, Dodge's mount showed a longing to bolt and dash up to the head of the line. Dodge, throbbing uneasily, reined in hard. His horse began to chafe as it found itself forced back. In another moment Dodge was lagging behind.

"Keep the pace, Mr. Dodge! Keep the pace, sir!" called out Captain Hall.

Bert obeyed, but in fear. He did not know at what instant this uneasy animal would rear and unhorse him.

At last the detachment was halted and the line faced about. Now the detachment rode in reverse direction around the tan-bark.

By this means Dodge became the leader.

Through the walk and the trot, he managed to get along all right, though he was nervous.

"Stick to your saddle, Mr. Dodge!" called Captain Hall. "Don't bump it, sir. Settle down and ride steadily."

Then, an instant later, just as Dodge was beginning to feel secure:

"Gallop!"

Dodge's wild mount gave a snort, then bolted.

"Whoa, you unruly beast!" roared Dodge. Behind him rode the detachment, grimly merry, though with not a flicker of a smile showing.

Bert's horse pulled away, and bolted, with Dodge tugging at the bridle.

Greg, riding behind him, endeavored to bridge the gap.

"Steady, Mr. Holmes!" shouted the cavalry instructor. "You may set the pace until Mr. Dodge regains control of his mount."

Straight around the tan-bark went Dodge and his mount, until the animal was in danger of colliding with Haskins' mount.

"Hard on your off rein, Mr. Dodge! Swing out into the center and bring your horse down!" ordered Captain Hall sternly.

Bert managed to swing out of the line, but that was all. He shot along on the inside, for the horse seemed to have a notion that it was racing the entire detachment, lap by lap.

"Have you utterly lost control of your horse, Mr. Dodge?" shouted Captain Hall.

Plainly enough the young man had, for, at that moment, the beast, its mouth sore from the continued tugging against the bits, slackened its pace, then plunged on its forefeet, throwing its heels high in the air.

With a gasp of terror Dodge struck the tan-bark, one shoulder landing first. But he still retained the bridle, and was dragged. The vicious animal wheeled, rearing, and its fore-feet came down aimed at Dodge's face.

Dick Prescott was the nearest cadet horseman at this moment. Suspecting what might happen, Prescott had swung his own mount sharply out of line, riding straight after Dodge.

"Drop your bridle!" called Dick sternly.

Then, just as Dodge's horse was bringing its fore-feet down, Prescott rode against the angry animal, striking it against the flank and shoving it sideways and back. The brute's forefeet struck the tan-bark, but more than two feet from Dodge's head. Bert had presence of mind enough to roll to one side.

In an instant Prescott was down out of saddle, holding his own splendidly disciplined mount by the bridle while he bent over his class-mate.

Dodge lay on the tan-bark, his uniform awry and dirty, and his face blanched with fear of the horse.

"Are you much hurt, Dodge?" asked Dick.

"No, confound you!" muttered Bert under his breath.

As if to prove his lack of injury, he sat up, then rose to his feet.

"Mount, Mr. Prescott, and join the line," noting all with quick eyes. "Mr. Dodge, recapture your horse, mount and fall in."

That was the discipline of the tan-bark. If a cadet falls from a horse and has no bones broken, or no other desperate injury, he must wait until his horse comes around, catch it and mount again. If the horse be excited and fractious, all the more reason why the cadet should capture the beast and mount instantly. A horse must always be taught that a cavalryman is his master.

The riderless brute had fallen in at the tail of the line now, behind Cadet Corporal Haslins, and was going along peaceably enough—-until Bert Dodge made a lunge for the bridle. Then the beast shied, and got past.

"Run after your horse, Mr. Dodge; catch him and mount him," called Captain Hall, fuming that this episode should steal away drill time from the other more capable young horsemen.

"Mr. Dodge," rapped out the cavalry instructor sharply, after Bert had made two more efforts to get hold of the bridle, "are you waiting for a groom to bring your horse to you?"

At this some of the pent-up merriment broke loose. Half a dozen yearlings chuckled aloud.

"Silence in ranks!" ordered the instructor sharply. Then, patiently, though with more that a tinge of rebuke in his tone, the captain added:

"Mr. Dodge, you've taken all the time we can spare you, sir. Catch that horse instantly and mount!"

By sheer good luck Bert managed to obey. But his nerve was gone for the afternoon. He made a sad bungle of all the work, though he was not again unhorsed.

There was bareback riding, and riding by pairs, in which latter feat one man of each pair passed his bridle to the comrade beside him, then rode with folded arms. Then came riding by threes, with the center man holding the bridles from either side, while each of the outer men rode with folded arms. Then, cautiously, the men were taught to stand on the bare backs of their horses and to move at a walk. By and by they would be required to ride, standing, at a gallop.

All through this drill, Dick Prescott rode with precision, power, and even grace.

Yet never had his mind been further from the present work than it was this afternoon.

Had Bert Dodge known more of what Prescott had seen as the former lay for that instant on the tan-bark, Dick's enemy would have fallen from his horse in a delirium of fear.

For, as Bert fell in the center of the tan-bark the left sleeve of his coat had been pushed back, exposing the white linen cuff.

From the inner hem of that cuff, up to the middle, Dick Prescott had gazed, for an instant only, on row after row of small, evenly lettered words or rows of numerals. Prescott had not had time to bend close enough to see which.

Yet no sooner had Dick vaulted back into saddle again than the remembrance of that cuff flashed upon him.

"Dodge has been excelling in daily recitations, yet can't do as well at general review!" flashed hotly through Prescott's mind. "And Dodge, the high-souled one who loathes cribs! If that writing on his cuff isn't a crib of today's math., then I'm a plebe!"

The thought would not down, even for a moment.

Dick became wilder in his thoughts the more he thought about it.

"The cribber! And he sought to blast me here on a false charge of cribbing. For now I know in my soul that he put that paper crib in my handkerchief that Friday morning months ago!"

Dick's indignation, as he rode, was more than personal. True, he longed to show up the sneak who had nearly wound up another and honest cadet's career here at West Point. But there was an even higher purpose in Prescott's mind at the same time. The corps of cadets loathes a cribber as it does any other kind of cheat or liar. It is justly regarded as a moral crime for any cadet, knowing another to be a sneak, stand by and silently allow that sneak to graduate into the brotherhood of the Army.

"Dodge, you cur, every minute, now, is bringing you nearer your own merited disgrace," muttered Dick savagely. "As soon as this detachment is dismissed at barracks I'll denounce you before all the fellows. I'll insist that you expose that cuff—-and you'll have to do it!"

Once Prescott caught himself wondering whether he might not fail through being too hasty. Was it barely possible that the writing on Bert Dodge's left cuff was wholly innocent?

"No! I'm not making any mistake, and I'll prove it to my own satisfaction!" throbbed this cadet who had waited patiently all these months for complete vindication before the corps.

Never had Dick known such relief at being dismissed from riding drill. The detachment formed under Haskins' orders, and marched up the road from riding hall, across the street to the Academic Building, and then, with Corporal Haskins still at the head, turned in at the east sally-port.

But here, right at the entrance to the port, stood Chaplain Montgomery.

"Corporal Haskins," called the chaplain, as he returned the cadet officer's smart salute, "will you excuse Mr. Prescott that I may speak with him?

"Mr. Prescott, fall out!" came Haskins' command.

With a feeling of horror and anguish Dick fell out, saluting Chaplain Montgomery, for the chaplain, though an ordained minister of the church, was also, by virtue of his post of chaplain, a captain of the United States Army.

On moved the detachment, the feet of the cadets moving at a rhythmic beat as these perfect young soldiers moved on across the barracks area.

And all Chaplain Montgomery had to say to Cadet Prescott was to tell him in which bound file of a magazine at the Y.M.C.A. could be found an article about which Dick had asked the churchman a fortnight before.

Dick returned thanks, though he meant no disrespect to the kindly chaplain. Then, saluting, he hurried on after the detachment.

But more than a fatal minute had been lost at the sally-port, and now the detachment was dismissed. The men had been in their rooms for at least forty-five seconds.

"No use to go to Dodge now!" thought Dick despondently. "Whether he knows that I saw that cuff or not, he has removed it and has it safely hidden by this time. Oh, if Chaplain Montgomery could have been a hundred yards further away at that moment!"

It was no use to lament. Dick concluded to wait and bide his time. The chance might yet come to catch Bert Dodge red handed.

"Though, if he suspects that I saw his exposed cuff, he'll take pains that there is not further chance!" decided Cadet Prescott.

After that he went to his room, where he told Greg what he had discovered.

"It's suspicious—-mightily so," declared Holmes. "But it isn't proof—-not yet!"

Nevertheless, Greg, once he had heard, could not get the matter out of his mind either!



CHAPTER XXI

PITCHING FOR THE ARMY NINE

"Dick, old fellow, this is going to be a Gridley day for us! It will carry us back to the good old High School days!"

Cadet Greg Holmes was radiant as he moved about their room in quarters that Saturday morning while preparing for the call to breakfast formation.

Until one o'clock these young men of West Point would be busy in the section rooms, as on other week days. But the afternoon of Saturday belonged to pleasure—-on this Saturday to sport!

Lehigh University was sending over the strongest baseball nine it could put up, in the effort to beat West Point on the Military Academy's diamond.

"It'll seem just like good old Gridley High School days," repeated Greg.

"Yes," smiled Dick darkly, "with the same rascal, Bert Dodge, to keep my thoughts going."

"Dodge won't be in the game, anyway."

"He wasn't much in Gridley, either," smiled Dick darkly.

"Oh, well, forget him until the game is over."

Morning recitations passed off as usual. It was when the cadets came back from dinner,

First, there was a brief inspection, after which cadets, with leave to visit the West Point Hotel, or officers' homes, strolled away to meet young women friends.

"I'm due to be only a rooter today," sigh Greg, as he saw his roommate start off to the gym to meet the other members of the nine.

"Your luck may change," rejoined Dick. "You'd better go along to the gym. You're the sub. shortstop, you know, and Meacham may not be on deck. Better come along, now."

"I will, then; I wasn't going over until just before time to get into togs and sit on the bench."

Up to this time, neither Prescott nor Holmes had judged their academic standing to be good enough to make it safe for them to enter into sports. This winter and spring, however, had found them "safe" enough for them to go into training with the baseball squad.

Dick had tried for the position of pitcher, but Kennedy had been chosen, while Prescott had gone to second base. Tatham was the sub. pitcher.

"Say, have you seen the Lehighs?" demanded Furlong, as the chums joined the crowd at the gym. "They're big fellows. They weigh a ton and a half to our ton."

"Lightness and speed count for more than beef in this game," smiled Prescott.

"Lehigh has sent some huskies, all right, and they look as if they'd give us a tough battle."

In baseball and football West Point plays college teams. The college men are generally older and much heavier. Besides, the college men, not having the same intense grind at their institutions, are able to devote four or five times as much actual time to the work of training.

Despite these handicaps, the West Point team generally holds its own end up very well indeed. The West Point men have one advantage; they are always in training, for which reason their bodily condition is always good. It is in the finer points of the technique of the game that the United States military cadets suffer from less practice.

Maitland, of the second class, was captain of the team this year. He was a much disturbed man when Dick and Greg reached the gym.

"What ails Maitland?" Dick asked Furlong.

"Haven't you heard? Kennedy is a great tosser, but he has his bad days when his wrist goes stale. And Tatham, the sub., fought his way through a poor dinner, but then he had to give up and go to hospital. He's threatened with some kind of fever, we hear. That leaves us without a sub. today."

"Oh, does it?" thought Prescott. With quick step and eager eye he sought Captain Maitland, who was also catcher for the nine.

"Mr. Maitland, I understand you're without a satisfactory sub. pitcher for today?"

"Confound it, yes; we're praying for the strength of Kennedy's wrist."

"You may remember that I tried for pitcher."

"I know you did," replied Maitland gloomily. "But the coaches thought Kennedy and Tatham ahead of you."

"If Kennedy should go bad today," pressed Dick eagerly, "I trust you will be willing order me in from second to the box. I know that I won't disappoint you. Ebbett and Dunstan are both good men at second."

Captain Maitland looked thoughtful.

"I'm afraid, Prescott, if Kennedy does happen to go stale, we'll have to call on you."

"I won't disappoint you, if you do, Captain!"

Then Maitland turned to regard Meacham, who was entering at that moment.

"What on earth ails you, Meacham?" demanded the worried captain of the nine.

"I was at a loot party last night," confessed Meacham miserably.

"Overeating yourself—-when you're in training, man?"

"Honestly, Maitland, I didn't believe the little that I put down was going to throw me. There wasn't a murmur until eleven this morning, and I felt sure that was going to work off. But it won't, and, oh, my!"

West Point's shortstop put his hands over his belt line, looking comically miserable. But to Captain Maitland there was no humor in the situation.

"You're a fine one!" growled Maitland. "Oh, Holmesy! Come over here, please. You haven't been teasing your stomach, have you?"

"I don't know that I have a stomach," replied Greg promptly.

"You'll play shortstop today, then."

Half an hour later, the Lehigh fellows were out on the field, going through some practice plays. Below the center of the grandstand, the West Point band was playing its most spirited music. The seats reserved for officers and their families, and for invited guests, were filling up rapidly. At the smaller stand, over at the east side of the field, Lehigh had some two hundred friends and rooters.

Now on to the field marched the corps of cadets, filing into the seats reserved for them, just north of the officers' seats.

Now, the band began to play the U.S.M.A. songs, the cadets joining in under the leadership of the cheer-master.

Then, amid a storm of West Point yells, the Army nine strode on to the field. Things moved quickly now. Lehigh won the toss and went to bat.

Kennedy appeared to be in excellent form. He struck out the first two Lehigh men at bat. The third man, however, gained first on called balls. The fourth man at bat drove a two-bagger, and now second and third were occupied. As the fifth of the Lehigh batsmen stepped up to the plate, the Lehigh cheers resounded, and West Point's rooters sat in tense silence. What was the matter with Kennedy? But the Army pitcher struck out his man, and Lehigh went out to grass without having scored. Lehigh's revenge, though, was swift. Three West Point men were struck out almost as rapidly as they could move to the plate.

In the second inning both sides got men to bases, but neither side scored. In the third Lehigh took one solitary run, but it looked well on the score-board at the north end of the field. West Point, in the last half of the third, put men on first and second, but that was all.

By the fourth inning, Kennedy was pitching a bit wildly. Maitland gazed at his comrade of the battery with anxious eyes. Lehigh began to grin with the ease of the thing now. One after another men walked to bases on called balls, until all of the bags were occupied.

Suddenly Kennedy, after taking a twist on the ball, signaled Maitland. The captain turned the umpire and spoke.

"Kennedy's old trick! He's gone stale and Tatham is down at hospital," passed from mouth to mouth among the home rooters. "Now, what's left for us?"

After a brief conversation with the umpire Maitland signaled. Dick Prescott came bounding in from second, to receive the ball from Kennedy, while Ebbett was seen racing out to second.

"Play ball!" called the umpire crisply.

"Oh, pshaw!" called one of the cadets. "In training season Prescott tried for pitcher and the coaches turned him down. Now we're done for today!"

Spirits were gloomy among the West Point rooters. Yet, within a few moments, they sat up, taking notice.

Dick, with his nerves a-tingle, his eye keen, measured up the Lehigh batsman and sent in one of his old-time, famous Gridley spit-balls. It looked slow and easy. The Lehigh man swung a well-aimed crack at the ball.

"Strike one," announced the umpire.

Again Prescott turned his wrist and twirled.

"Strike two!"

Then an outcurve.

"Strike three! Out!"

Lehigh began to look with some interest at this new, confident pitcher.

The next Lehigh man to bat met a similar fate. So did the third man.

Now, the West Point yells went up with new force and purpose.

The corps yell rose, loud and thunderous, followed by three cries of "Prescott!"

In their half of the inning, West Point put men on first and second, but that was the best they could do.

So it dragged along to the seventh inning. Army rooters were now sure that West Point's star pitcher had been found at last, and that Lehigh would have rare luck to score again today. But West Point didn't seem able to score, either, and Lehigh had the one needed dot.

As Army went to bat Greg took up the stick and swung it expectantly.

"Do something, Greg," Dick had whispered. "I'm the second man after you, and I'll back you if you can get a start. Remember the old Gridley days of victory. Get some of that same old ginger into you!"

Holmes, as he swung the stick over the plate, seemed to feel himself back on the old athletic field of Gridley High School. And these stalwart college boys before him seemed to him to be the old, old Tottenville High School youngsters.

One strike Greg essayed and lost. At the second offer, he hit the ball a sharp crack and started. He reached first, but as he turned, the ball fell into the hands of Lehigh's second baseman, and Greg fell back to safety at first.

Ebbett, who followed, hit at the third offer, driving the ball almost under the feet of Lehigh's right-fielder. As that man seized it he saw that Greg was within kicking distance of second bag, so he threw to first and Ebbett was out.

Dick now stepped confidently forward. He looked at Lehigh's tired pitcher with a challenging smile.

At the first offer, Prescott struck the leather sphere—-crack! In an instant Greg was in motion, while Dick raced as though bent on catching his chum. The ball had gone out over the head of center, who was now faithfully chasing it across outfield. Greg came in and hit the plate amid a cyclone of Army enthusiasm. The band was playing in sheer joy. Dick kicked second bag, then darted back as he saw the ball drop into the hands of the Lehigh catcher, who promptly sent it spinning straight into the third baseman's hands.

Then Maitland gained first on called balls, and Furlong did the same, which advanced Prescott to third.

Now Carson came up with the stick, sending out a slow grounder.

In like an Apache runner came Prescott, kicking the plate just before the ball dropped.

From the seats of the Army came the triumphant yell:

"North point, east point, south point, West Point—-two points!"

The next Army man struck out, but West Point was breathing, now, with score two to one.

"Don't let Lehigh put another dot on the card, Prescott, and you'll be our pitcher this year," promised Maitland.

"Wait and see if the visitors can get any more from us," laughed Dick coolly. He felt that he had his old Gridley winning gait on now. He proved it by striking out three straight in the first half of the eighth. But West Point did not score, either, in that inning.

Then came Lehigh, grim and desperate, to bat for the ninth time. The first man Dick struck out. But even his wrist seemed to be treacherous now. The second Lehigh man offered at nothing, and went to first on called balls. So did the second, and a third man, and the bags were filled.

Maitland glanced appealingly at Dick.

The new batsman, at the second offer, drove a slow grounder. Greg Holmes raced forward for it, like a deer. As he caught it up there was no perceptible pause before he sent it straight into Maitland's hands, and the man headed for the plate was out. But the three bags were again full.

Another Lehigh man hit one of Dick's drives, but only faintly with the edge of his bat, and he went out on a foul hit.

"Now, I'm going to strike this new man out," resolved Dick desperately, steeling nerves and muscles for the effort.

"Strike one!" called the umpire. "Ball one! Ball two! Strike two! Strike three! Out!"

It was over, and Lehigh, covered with chagrin, gave up the contest, while a pandemonium of Army cheers went loose. Two to one!

"Prescott, I guess you're our pitcher here-after" called Maitland hoarsely. "And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!"

Dick Prescott found himself the center of a swift rush of cadets. Then he was hoisted aloft, and rushed off the field in triumph and glory, while the corps yell rang out for him. Over in the gym. Prescott was forced to hold an impromptu reception. Greg got much of the ovation.

Captain Verbeck, the head coach, came up to grasp Dick's hand.

"Prescott, I don't understand how you ever got by us. But Maitland wants you for our star pitcher after this, and you'll have to be. It was the greatest Army game, from the box, that I've seen in many a year."

"Say, you fellows," greeted Anstey, breaking into their room after the chums had returned to barracks, "you two had better go over today, and the men who are to drag the spooniest femmes tonight are all plotting to write you down on the dance cards of their femmes."

"That's the best reason in the world for keeping away from Cullum, then," laughed Dick.

"But I mean it seriously," protested Anstey.

"So do I," replied Dick

"I'm really a committee of one, sent here by some of tonight's draggers," protested the Virginian.

"Tell them of your non-success, then, do," urged Dick. "For I'm not going to Cullum tonight. Are you, Greg?"

"Ye-es," returned Holmes promptly. Then, suddenly, he paused in his moving about the room.

He now stood looking at his left hand, on which appeared a small smear of black.

"No!" suddenly uttered Greg. "I'm not going. I've changed my mind—-and for the best reasons possible."

"Now, what on earth has made you so excited?" demanded Anstey wonderingly.



CHAPTER XXII

GREG'S SECRET AND ANOTHER'S

"Are you going to the hop tonight?" asked Holmes, looking up with gleaming eyes from the smear on the back of his hand.

"No," admitted Anstey.

"Can you keep a secret?

"Yes, suh; suhtinly."

"Then come here at 8.15 to-night."

"What are you talking——-"

"I'm not talking, now," retorted Greg with a resolute tone in his voice. "Like a wise man, I'm going to do some thinking first. But you call around this evening. It'll be worth your while."

Anstey looked and felt highly mystified. It must be something both sudden and important to make Greg change his mind so swiftly. For Cadet Holmes, who, in his home town, had not been exactly noted for gallantries to the other sex, had, in the yearling class, acquired the reputation of being a good deal of a "spoonoid." This is the term applied to a cadet who displays a decided liking for feminine company.

"I can see that it isn't any use to ask you anything now," went on Anstey.

"It isn't," Greg returned promptly. "I'm never secretive against you, Anstey, old man and the only reason I don't talk at once is that I don't know just what I want to say. But remember—-8.15. By that time I think I shall have solved myself into a highly talkative goat yearling."

Rap-tap! at the door, and Furlong and Dunstan dropped in.

"Want to tell you what I think about your pitching, old ramrod," announced Furlong.

"It's rotten!" glowed Dunstan cheerfully "And your shortstop work, Holmesy——-"

"What kindergarten nine did you play with last?" insisted Furlong.

"I was just making up my mind not to pitch again this season," grinned Cadet Prescott.

"Why not?" Furlong demanded.

"Milesy," laughed Dick, "you should never go out on a kidding expedition until you're sure you're josh-proof yourself. Do you think anything less than the coaches and the team captain could stop me from pitching? But I sorry for Ken, if I'm to supplant him."

"You needn't be. Kennedy is glad. He hopes to make the cavalry, and he says he wants to train that wrist for wielding a sabre."

"Can you two near-plebes find time to drop in this evening, at just 8.15?" demanded Greg.

"Certain idea! What's up, Holmesy?"

"It isn't a feed," declared Greg. "But I think you'd be sorry afterwards if you failed to come."

"We'll be here," promised Dunstan.

"Then I guess our party will be complete," mumbled the mysterious Greg.

"Say, Holmesy," nudged Dunstan, "how did you get that smear on the back of your hand? Do you know, it looks like the famous one that Cadet Dodge rubbed off with a borrowed handkerchief, once on a time."

"Does it?" asked Greg innocently. "Be good enough to loan me your handkerchief, then?"

"Not much!" growled Dunstan, backing away. "The loaning of personal linen seems on its way to becoming a court-martial offence."

When the visitors had left, Dick turned on his chum, demanding curiously:

"What's the game for tonight, anyway, Greg?"

"You didn't see how I got this smear on my hand, did you, old ramrod?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going to tell you at present," replied Greg, going to his washbowl and pouring in water. "But the way I got it set me to thinking.

"About what?"

"Well, about the way Bert Dodge got his hand smeared back in the days of ancient history. And, old ramrod, I believe that following up the clue may lead to some other discoveries that will possess a vital interest for you."

"But——-"

"No more at present! That's a special order," affirmed Greg. "Be good, like the rest, and wait until 8.15 to-night."

At supper, in cadet mess hall, the talk all naturally turned to the diamond game with Lehigh that afternoon. The Army, at the outset, had hardly expected to win against that year's Lehigh nine. When the game was well under way, Army hopes had been still lower. Now, the talk was all on how Prescott and Holmes had saved the game to the Army. Even Maitland, without a trace of jealousy, conceded them most of the credit.

"What has cherubic, spoonoid Holmesy got up his sleeve for 8.15?" asked Dunstan in an undertone of Anstey.

"I reckon, suh, you'll have to apply for particulars to the Information and Security Service, suh," replied the Virginian. "To the best of my belief, suh, the secret is all Mr. Holmes's."

So no more questions were asked. But at 8.15, to the second, Furlong and Dunstan tapped on the Prescott-Holmes door, and, as they did so. Anstey turned at the head of the stairs. Punctuality is one of the cardinal virtues of the soldier; to be a half minute late is a grave breach of etiquette; to be five minutes late amounts almost to a crime.

"Now, Holmesy, we want light," insisted Furlong.

"At first blush," returned Greg, "some of you may not like the job. It is nothing more nor less than a visit to Dodge's room, while he and Blayton are absent at the hop."

"It is an extreme measure, surely," murmured Dunstan.

Anstey remained silent, waiting for further particulars.

"What I would call to your attention," went on Greg, "is that my roommate, old ramrod, was nearly bounced out of West Point for something he never did. I believe, and probably you all do, that Mr. Dodge played an evil and guilty part in what became nearly a tragedy."

"I wouldn't put anything mean beyond Dodge," replied Furlong.

"Now, I believe I can take you to Dodge's room. Both he and Brayton are absent at the hop. Brayton has always been a decent fellow, I don't believe he admires Dodge any too much, but he has to put up with his roommate. Now, in that room I hope to find evidence which will prove that Dodge is not fit to be a member the corps of United States Military Academy cadets. Will you come with me and look for the proof?"

"I suhtinly will, suh," replied the Virginian promptly.

"If Anstey will go on a job like that," muttered Dunstan, "then I guess it's a proper undertaking for gentlemen."

"I thank you, suh," nodded the Virginian gravely.

"Then come along, all hands," begged Greg. "If we find anything of the sort that I expect to, then there will be witnesses enough to prove the find to the satisfaction of the class and of the corps."

Feeling like so many conspirators, this committee of five moved along to Dodge's room. Greg went a little ahead and tapped. Had Dodge been there it would not have interfered seriously with his plans. But there was no answer, so Holmes pushed open the door, turning the gas half on and lighting it.

"This afternoon," declared Greg, "I dropped a stub of a pencil in our room. It fell on the bricks of the floor of the fireplace, and rolled into the space between two of the bricks. In getting that pencil out I got on the back of my hand the smear that you all saw.

"Fellows, I've been thinking for weeks and months about that smear on the back of Mr. Dodge's hand. When I saw the one on the back of my own hand it occurred to me at once how Mr. Dodge might have got that black spot on his hand. It came over me, all in a flash. I knew that Brayton and Mr. Dodge would be out of the way this evening at the hop. Dodge has a hiding place somewhere in this room. From the past history of the Academy we know that favorite hiding places have always been under the bricks of the fireplaces. For use in the winter time the hiding place must be in the outer edge of the brick flooring, close up to where it joins the boards. In such a hiding place the fire wouldn't harm the hidden objects. Now, some of you might help me to see what we can find."

Anstey, with a gravely judicial air, knelt beside Holmes. Together they tapped back and forth over the bricks with rulers taken from the study tables.

"This is the brick that hides the place, I reckon, suh," announced the Virginian rather deliberately.

"Let's pry it up, then," suggested Greg.

But the brick resisted rather strenuous efforts.

"That's odd, in itself," muttered Holmes. "Almost of the bricks in these fireplaces come up as easily as a naval apprentice's dinner. Anse, we've got to work at this brick until we have loose. It surely hides something."

"We mustn't damage either the wooden or brick flooring," warned Furlong. "If we did find anything, after all, think of the row Dodge could raise over the vandalism in his room."

So the time slipped by, faster than any of them knew. But these five cadets, now satisfied that the obdurate brick really did hide a secret toiled on with no thought of surrender.

At last they struck the combination. The brick back of the one that so resisted their efforts was finally pried up, after a good deal of effort. This opening laid bare a neat but powerful spring.

Had they had, at the outset, the whole secret of this spring, they could have raised the resisting brick in a second's time.

"Get it up—-must have a look!" cried Prescott hoarsely.

It was Greg who raised the brick that had resisted their efforts for so long. Underneath Cadet Holmes found a collection of things that chained the attention of all, as each took eager looks in turn.

"Going to put the stuff back, for the present?" asked Anstey, with an odd quiver in his voice The honorable Virginian was upset by what he had seen.

"Not never!" retorted Greg with ungrammatical emphasis. "It won't be just the thing for old ramrod and myself to have it, either. Milesy, you and Dunstan take it along with you. Now, old ramrod, just what had we better do?"

"I don't see anything for it but to root out again after taps and the subdivision inspector's visit tonight," muttered Dick, who was alternately pale and flushed over the discovery, and all that it meant. "Gentlemen, will you come softly to my room fifteen minutes after the sub-division inspector's official visit at taps?"

Greg and Anstey restored the bricked flooring of the fireplace so that nothing indicated the late search.

Then, Dunstan and Furlong carrying away the discovered stuff, the five prowlers turned out the gas and separated.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE "COMMITTEE ON CLASS HONOR"

At a few minutes after eleven, that same April night, five cadets fully dressed stole down the corridor, and the leader laid a hand on Dodge's doorknob.

In another moment they had stepped inside and their arrival awakened Cadet Brayton.

"Plebes' quarters next floor up, brothers," called Brayton in drowsy good nature.

"I'm sorry to say, Brayton, we're on the right floor, and in the right room," responded Dunstan. "But this visit won't bother you!"

The noise of voices awoke Bert Dodge with start. He awoke with a snort, then sat bolt upright, peering in the dark.

"Wh—-who's there?" he demanded hoarsely.

"A committee on class honor, Mr. Dodge," replied Furlong, while Anstey added, with ironic politeness:

"Don't be alahmed, suh. We do not believe you to be possessed, suh, of any of the commodity of which we are in search."

"Brayton" asked Greg, "will you be good enough to slip into your bathrobe and hang your blankets over the window? Then we can have some light. That's one thing we're going to need," he added significantly.

"Don't you do it, Bray," broke in Dodge stiffly. "As for you fellows, the best thing you can all do is to go back to your cradles. Bray and I want to sleep the night through. And you've no business here, anyway."

"I'm afraid you've missed the point, suh?" replied Anstey with bored patience. "That is exactly why we're here, suh—-because we have business here."

Brayton had slipped into his bathrobe and was now crossing the room with blankets on one arm.

"Chase 'em out, Bray; don't hang any blankets for them to run a light behind," begged Dodge.

"I'm afraid I'd better," murmured Brayton, as he stood on a chair and reached up to put the blankets in place. Didn't you hear the announcement that this is a committee of honor? The class has a right to send one to any man, and Prescott, the class president, is here. There, those blankets will hold and shut in all light. Turn on the gas, Holmesy, if you will."

"You'd better get into robe and slippers, too, Mr. Dodge," hinted Dunstan strongly. "Our business is with you, and I think you'll feel more at ease on your feet."

"What is all this nonsense about, anyway growled Dodge, as he slipped out of bed and wrapped himself in his dressing gown.

"That's what we'll ask you to explain," retorted Greg. "But let us go about this in a regular manner. In the first place, Brayton, please understand that you are not being investigated. It is Mr. Dodge who is under suspicion."

"Yes; under fine suspicion!" snarled Dodge. "You mean I'm to be the victim of a plot hatched by my two old enemies back in the home town."

But Greg, ignoring him, turned to his chum.

"Dick, old ramrod, as you're the aggrieved one, I don't suppose you can exactly act as class president in this case. But you can designate some other member of the class to act in your place."

"Then I'll name Mr. Anstey," replied Dick. "I believe he will be satisfactory to everyone."

"Not to me!" snapped Bert Dodge, his uneasy gaze roving from one face to another. "The class president can't name his own substitute."

"Silence!" commanded Brayton, turning on his roommate. "Of course the class president can delegate his duties, temporarily, to another."

"Take this matter in charge, Mr. Anstey," begged Dick, turning to the Virginian.

"Mr. Dodge," continued the Virginian, "be good enough, suh, to pay good heed to what I have to say. That will be necessary, in fairness to yourself, suh. I'll begin at the beginning."

Anstey began with the handkerchief-borrowing episode in barracks area. He dwelt upon the accusation against Cadet Prescott, the court-martial, and the further fact that even the verdict of acquittal had not, at first, been fully accepted by all members of the corps of cadets clearing Dick of the fearful suspicion against his honor.

"What has all this to do with me?" snarled Dodge. "Is Prescott trying to revive his old and infamous hints against me?

"Wait a moment, Mr. Dodge," continued Anstey patiently. "Now will now move along to the drill in the riding hall yesterday afternoon."

Anstey then described the bared cuff that Prescott had seen on Dodge's left wrist.

"That's a lie," rasped out Dodge.

But Anstey heeded him not; Prescott merely smiled. But the sight of that smile maddened Dodge, who sprang up, crying:

"Yes! You think you have it all cooked up against me, Dick Prescott! But you'll find that truth and right will win."

Dick did not answer, but Anstey, looking impressively at the culprit, declared:

"Mr. Dodge, tonight, while you were away, we pried up that brick!"

Every vestige of color fled from Bert's face. He seemed about to fall, but he clutched at the chair back and remained standing.

"Of course, Mr. Dodge, you know what we found there. Brayton, you don't so you will interested in seeing the things. Milesy, be good enough to spread the collection on that table. Here, you see, first of all, is the cuff of yesterday. Even the writing, in India ink, remains on it. And here are reddish stains, made by the impact of that cuff with the tan-bark of the riding hall. Here are slips of paper on which the main features of the hardest math. problems of each day have been noted down, ready for writing on a cuff. Here is the water-proof ink and the pen with which the writing on the cuff was done. And here are some other slips of paper, evidently older, on which other problems have been written out more fully. These older slips of paper contain problems of last November and early December—-the time when Prescott was in his deep trouble. Now, these older slips are of paper just like the piece that fell from the handkerchief that Prescott took out of his blouse on that tragic day. Somewhere in the files the authorities have that slip that figured in the charges at Prescott's trial by general court-martial. I imagine, on comparison, that slip will be found to be on paper identical with these slips containing older problems. And you will note that these older slips are written on with a typewriting machine, with crude figures drawn in, just as in the case of the slip that figured Prescott's trial. Now, Mr. Dodge, isn't it plain to even the dullest mind that you have been systematically cribbing at math., and that it is to that fact you owe your present high standing in the yearling class?"

"Now that I think of it," remarked Brayton, turning and fixing his roommate with a frigid, hostile stare, "I have, on at least two occasions, entered this room just in time to see Mr. Dodge spring up hastily from near the fireplace. But I am a dull-witted fellow, I suppose, and I didn't suspect.

"Have you anything to say, Mr. Dodge?" demanded Anstey.

"Nothing," barely gasped the detected wretch.

"Then I will say something instead, suh," continued the Virginian. "I would rather the task fell to someone else, but this work has been delegated to me, and I must see it through, suh. Mr. Dodge, we are all satisfied that you are a miserable, lying, sneaking hound, suh, not worthy to associate with gentlemen. We are satisfied, suh, that you are without honor or principle, and that you will never be fit to become an officer of the Army."

"Now, see here, fellows," broke in Dodge in a whining tone, "if you'll be generous and give me another chance, I can live this down."

"Then you admit that which we have been stating against you, do you, suh?" questioned the Virginian. "It will be best for you to be wholly honest, suh!