entmate,
after the cadet captain had gone.

"Pretty rough!" returned the tentmate sleepily.

Rough? The first class was seething when it received the word
next morning, for it was the common belief that Prescott must
have shadowed and followed his classmate in order to entrap him.

"It's surely time for class action now," Durville told several
of his classmates.

CHAPTER IV

THE CLASS COMMITTEE CALLS

Outwardly A company and the entire corps of cadets was as placid
and unruffled as ever when the two battalions marched to breakfast
that morning.

One conversant with military procedure, however, would have noted
that Jordan, being a prisoner, marched in the line of the file
closers.

And Mr. Jordan's face was wholly sulky, strive as he would to
banish the look and appear indifferent.

Even to a fellow naturally as unsocial as the cadet now in arrest,
it was no joke to be confined to his tent even for the space of
a week, except when engaged in official duties; and to be obliged,
two afternoons in a week, to march in full equipment and carry
his piece, for three hours in the barracks quadrangle under the
watchful eyes of a cadet corporal.

This penalty would last during the remaining weeks of the encampment
and would be pronounced upon Jordan as soon as the commandant of
cadets perfunctorily confirmed the temporary order of Lieutenant
Denton.

Dick, at the head of A company, looked as impassive as ever, though
he felt far from comfortable.

Through the ranks, wherever first classmen walked, excitement
was seething.

When Prescott was seated at table in the cadet mess hall, Greg,
who sat next his chum, turned and raised his eyebrows briefly, as
though to say:

"There's something warm in the air."

Dick's momentary glance in return as much as said:

"I know it."

None of the other cadets at the same table turned to address Prescott
directly, with the single exception of Greg Holmes. True, when
Dick had occasion, twice or thrice, to address other men at his
table, they answered him, though briefly.

Whatever was in the air it had not broken yet. That was as much
as Prescott could guess.

The instant that they had returned to camp, and the two chums
were in their tent, Greg whispered fiercely:

"That sulker, Jordan, is putting up trouble for you, as sure as
you're alive."

"Then I've given him a bully handle to his weapon," admitted Dick
Prescott dryly.

They were hustling into kha