get practice."

"That isn't a sentence of death; it's a guarantee of safety."

This last sally turned the laugh on the entire plebe class. Dick
flushed worse than ever when he saw many of his classmates
begin to squirm.

"They might, at least, take it all out on me, and leave the class
alone," muttered Dick to himself.

"Where are you going so fast, mister?" hailed a yearling, after the
return to camp, as he beheld a plebe hurrying down a company
street.

"I'm summoned as a witness before the general court-martial,"
called back Mr. Plebe, over his shoulder.

"Court-martial? I hadn't heard there was to be one."

"Yes, sir; they're going to try the prisoner caught on number three,
sir."

The yearling turned away grinning, for once not deeming it
necessary to rebuke a "beast" for attempting to make a smart
answer.

Out on the range, at target practice, two mornings later, Dick did
some especially bad shooting.

"Don't be afraid of hitting the target, Mr. Prescott," advised
Lieutenant Gerould dryly. "It's made of something more substantial
than straw."

A gleeful roar went up from some of the other "beasts."
Lieutenant Gerould eyed them in surprise, for this Army officer
was one of the few at West Point who had not already heard of
number three sentry's capture.

It was a fortnight ere Cadet Prescott could feel really secure
against more "joshing" over the incident.

"I'm better satisfied than if we had done what we set out to do to
that plebe," remarked Yearling Davis to his tentmates.

"Mr. Prescott is a rather decent sort--for a mere plebe," replied
Poultney. "Do you know, I think he's almost glad that he caught the
dummy we rigged for him. I believe the little beast would have
hated to catch a uniform stuffed with human flesh."

CHAPTER XIV

POOR GREG CAN'T EXPLAIN

The weeks slipped by, though not without the friction of sincerely
hard work.

Dick, Greg and many of their classmates, toiling, marching,
drilling under the hot sun that shone on the West Point plain and
drill areas, acquired deep coats of manly tan on faces, necks and
hands.

In many a story of West Point life the summer encampment is
made to appear "the good old summer time" of an Army career.
The West Point cadet knows better. It is a season of the hardest
work.

At an hour when most city-dwelling boys are turning over in bed
for another long and luxurious "snooze" the West Point cadet is up
and doing in earnest.