"Well, you got off lucky," commented Paul, as he began to remove his wet garments.

"Do you think so?" asked d.i.c.k, somewhat bitterly. "I rather wish they had given me what you got."

"Why?" asked his roommate.

d.i.c.k told his reasons.

"I don't see why they hold my money against me," he added.

"I heard some talk about it," admitted Paul. "Some of the older cadets have read the things printed in the papers about you; when you went out west to investigate that gold mine, and when you hired the circus to come to Hamilton Corners. They evidently think you depend on your money to win popularity, and I heard some of them say you were to be taught a lesson."

"They're beginning already," said d.i.c.k. "Perhaps you would rather not room with such an unpopular chap as I seem to be. I guess I could get an apartment alone, by paying double rates," he added, sarcastically.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Paul. "I'm not that sort, and I don't believe you'll find many cadets who are. I don't care for money, one way or the other. I wish my dad had a little more. Don't let Dutton and his cronies worry you. You'll have friends among the freshmen, anyway."

"Not if Dutton has his say."

"Well, perhaps he won't have it. He comes of a very old family, I'm told, who have not much money, but who are very proud. I don't care for him myself, but he's considered a leader here."

"My, you certainly got a soaking," commented d.i.c.k, as Paul stripped. He was glad to change the unpleasant subject.

"I sure did," admitted the other "and what's more we've got to sleep in a damp bed, unless we ask the housekeeper for other covers."

"No, don't do that. I would give the hazing away, and I might become more unpopular than I am," and d.i.c.k laughed a little uneasily.

"I don't fancy sleeping between damp sheets, though."

"I've got an extra suit of pajamas in my case," said d.i.c.k. "You can put them on, and we'll stretch out on the beds without covers.

"It's not cold. We'll take our medicine. Or, rather, I'll share part of yours."

They pa.s.sed a rather uncomfortable night, but did not think of complaining. In the morning they compared notes with the other freshmen, many of whom had had the same experience.

That day was spent in forming the new cadets into companies, and, to d.i.c.k's disgust he found that he was in the company of which Ray Dutton was the cadet captain, and John Stiver, a crony of the captain, was lieutenant. Paul Drew was in Company B, d.i.c.k's being designated as Company A. But our hero took some consolation from the fact that his odd friend William the Silent was a sergeant in his company.

The new cadets were given their rifles, made to don uniforms, put through a preliminary drill that afternoon, and told something of the routine that would be in order when matters had settled down into their usual grooves. d.i.c.k picked out his line of studies, received his text books and took them to his room, where he found Paul.

The next day being Sat.u.r.day the cadets had the afternoon free and they strolled about the grounds, went off on horseback or rowing, as they desired. Somewhat to his regret d.i.c.k noticed that a rule was posted forbidding freshmen to go out rowing or riding alone after Sat.u.r.day.

They must be accompanied by a teacher or cadet officer.

"They must think we're babies," he murmured.

"Well, when we get to know the ropes a little better," said Paul, "we'll go out together."

That evening, when the mail was distributed, d.i.c.k received a letter from his father, posted just as the ship was sailing. There were also several missives from his chums at home, and quite a bulky letter, which when the young millionaire opened it, he saw was from aged Captain Handlee, and contained a photograph.

With many words, and a somewhat lengthy explanation, the old soldier stated that he had had copies made of the photograph of his son, and was sending one to d.i.c.k, to aid him in tracing the missing man.

"There, I nearly forgot about my promise," said d.i.c.k, recalling it as he saw the picture. "I must make some inquiries of Major Webster as soon as possible."

He took the photograph to his room, and placed it on a shelf, where he would be sure to see it, to remind him of his quest, though he had little hopes that it would amount to anything.

It was Sunday morning when d.i.c.k, who had awakened rather early, heard steps coming along the corridor, and then came the whistled strains of "Just Before the Battle, Mother," followed by the reveille, cheerily warbled.

"That's Toots," said d.i.c.k to Paul, who awakened just then.

Toots stopped outside d.i.c.k's door and knocked.

"Come," cried the young millionaire, and Toots, the odd character, entered, carrying a pail of hot water.

"One of the janitors is sick," he explained, "and I'm helping out. You can use this for shaving or drink it, just as you like," he added with a smile.

He filled the boys' hot water pitchers, and was about to leave the room, when he caught sight of the photograph of Corporal Bill Handlee on the shelf.

"Where--where did you get that?" he asked, turning quickly to the two lads.

"Why?" asked d.i.c.k, much impressed by the manner of Toots.

"Because I--I think I know him--or did once," and the man set down his pail of water, and drew his hand across his forehead, as if trying to brush away some cobwebs. d.i.c.k noticed that there was a scar on the man's brow.

"Where did you see him? When was it? Where was it?" asked d.i.c.k rapidly, thinking he had stumbled on a clue.

"I don't know--I can't recollect, but the face--that face seems familiar," and Toots, taking up the photo, gazed earnestly at it.

"That is the picture of the missing son of an old soldier who lives in Hamilton Corners," said d.i.c.k. "Captain Handlee asked me to make some inquiries about him. It's queer you should think you recognized it, Toots. Were you ever in the army?"

The man shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm a fine shot though. I ought to be in the army."

d.i.c.k felt a new hope. The missing man said he was an expert marksman.

But then d.i.c.k recalled what he had heard about Toots; that the man had a delusion that he was a sharpshooter, but that he could scarcely hit the outer edge of a big target.

"Can't you recall where you have seen this man?" asked d.i.c.k earnestly.

Toots slowly shook his head.

"What was his name?" he asked.

"Corporal Bill Handlee."

"No, that name doesn't sound familiar. But I'm sure I've seen him somewhere. I can't think--something seems to stop me here," and the man again pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead.

"Try," urged d.i.c.k.

Toots made a strong effort to recall the past, but it was of no avail.

He shook his head once more, picked up his pail, and started out.