front of his blouse, Dick thought he
never would get his breath again.

"Instead of feeding his prisoner, I believe Mr. Prescott has been
eating some of his prisoner," observed Corporal Hasbrouck dryly.
"Mr. Prescott, himself, appears to be full of straw at present."

The general laugh that followed didn't make it any easier for the
victim of all this nonsense. In laughing again Dick choked so that
he began to turn slightly black.

"Dry up, you hyenas!" ordered Cadet Captain Reynolds, as he
rushed to Prescott's relief. In a few moments the late sentry on
number three was breathing easily again. He threw himself down
on a mattress, and was soon asleep.

But in the morning he had to go through the ordeal ten-fold. As
Dick went to his tent to change some articles of clothing Bert
Dodge appeared in the company street.

"Hey, mister," called yearling Davis, after Bert, "I hear good news.
Last night the guard caught the chap who shanghaied you."

Even Greg and Anstey were prepared to quiz the "hero" of the
comic episode of the night before.

"That was a fine comic opera performance, old chap," grinned
Anstey.

"The next time you arrest a lay figure," suggested Greg, "at least be
good enough to capture one that's stuffed with lemons."

"Oh, the straw figure was a lemon, of a kind," laughed the
Virginian.

"Did the prisoner yell when you pricked point of your bayonet in
its flesh of husks?" Greg wanted to know.

"Do you expect the K.C. to mention you in orders for
distinguished gallantry?" demanded Anstey.

"Or to skin you on a suspicion of stealing straw from the artillery
stables?" snickered Greg.

"I know one funny thing about straw, anyway," declared Anstey,
turning around to Holmes.

"What?" asked Greg.

"It's bound to tickle you," declared the Virginian gravely.

Even at breakfast, in the cadet mess, Dick failed to get away from
his tormentors. One of the yearlings, seated at a table not far from
the one at which Prescott sat, called out to a classmate:

"Queer thing about that prisoner bagged on number three last
night. Did you hear who the prisoner turned out to be?"

"No-o-o," drawled the other yearling, while a hundred pairs of eyes
were turned on flame-faced Prescott.

"It was the class president of the beasts" (plebes).

"Kind of tough fate for the prisoner, though," railed another.

"What's that?"

"He's been sentenced to death. He is to be used as a target for the
plebe squads in tar