"Hm!" murmured d.i.c.k, as they heard the lieutenant's retreating footsteps. "We've both had a jolly good lesson."

"You didn't do much," muttered Greg shamefacedly. "I wouldn't feel so bad about a call down over a bit of ordinary b.j.-ety. I was scorched and withered for being a cold-foot and a quitter--and I deserve it all, and more!"

"I'm glad you see that, old Gridley!" murmured Cadet d.i.c.k heartily. "Now, Greg, you won't write another letter of resignation, will you?"

"Not if I die of homesickness and melancholy!" muttered Greg, clenching his hands.

"Now, after letting you in for an awful verbal flogging," smiled d.i.c.k curiously, "I'll let you into a secret. I wrote a letter of resignation, too."

"When?" gasped Cadet Holmes amazed.

"Two days ago," confessed d.i.c.k. "I read it through six times before sending it to the superintendent."

"You didn't--send it to the superintendent?" gasped Greg.

"No; because I also tore it to fine bits before sending it to headquarters--and so the letter never reached the one to whom it was addressed," laughed Cadet Prescott. "Now, look here, Greg.

Admit that you were a prize simpleton, just as I was. Let's start anew--with a bang-up motto. This is it: 'A Gridley boy may die, but resign--never!'"

d.i.c.k struck such a dramatic att.i.tude that both poor young plebes began to laugh heartily.

"Oh, and now for the news that brought me back here hotfoot," ran on Prescott glibly. "Greg, you never could guess who's here at West Point."

"The President, or the Chief of the General Staff?" asked Holmes slowly.

"Oh, pshaw, no! They don't either one amount to as much as the fellow I'm talking about thinks he amounts to."

"Whom did our Senators appoint to the Academy?" asked Prescott after a pause.

"Me," admitted Greg, again turning red.

"Well, whom did the other Senator appoint!"

"A fellow named Spooner, who came here and 'fessed out' cold (failed badly) on the academic exam," Greg responded.

"Who was Spooner's alternate!" persisted d.i.c.k.

"I don't believe I remember," Greg replied slowly.

"No; and that was because neither you nor I ever knew. Spooner's alternate was--Bert Dodge!"

"What? Bert Dodge, of Gridley?" demanded Cadet Holmes astonished.

"That very chap," Prescott admitted. "When Spooner went home, after 'fessing out' here, Bert Dodge, who hadn't appeared, was ordered by wire to report at once, or have his name stricken out.

Bert's physician wired the War Department that the young fellow was ill, though the illness would not delay him more than a few days. So Bert was given a brief grace. Well, sir, I've just learned that Dodge reported at the adjutant's office this morning. He got by the surgeons bounding, and to-morrow he sits down at his 'writs.' (written examinations) in the Academic Building."

"I wonder if that fellow will pa.s.s," cried Greg wonderingly.

"Oh, I rather think he'll make it easily," replied d.i.c.k, seating himself at his own desk. "Bert wasn't a fool at his studies. He spent more than three years at Gridley High School, and since then has had a school year and a half at one of the finest prep. schools in the country. Oh, I guess he'll get through all right."

"So we've got to have him here for a comrade!" sighed Greg disgustedly, as he picked up his text-book on English.

CHAPTER V

CANDIDATE DODGE IS CRITICAL

Both cadets had studied for ten minutes perhaps, when a knock sounded at their door.

The very unusualness of this caused both youngsters to look around, then at each other.

Had it been any cadet officer making an inspection--as was likely to happen at any minute of the waking day--he would have come straight into the room. And any other cadet, after knocking, would have followed this by opening the door and stepping inside.

Rap-rap! sounded again.

"Oh, come in," called d.i.c.k.

The door opened. Bert Dodge, dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion, looked inside.

"May I come in?" he called, in what was meant for a cordial, friend-from-home voice.

"Oh, yes, come in," sighed d.i.c.k wearily.

"That's not quite the welcome I might have expected from you two," muttered Bert, as he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Fellows, you're at West Point now," proceeded Bert Dodge pompously, "and this is a place where social points count tremendously, as I guess you've found out by this time. Now, you two may be all right, and I guess you are," admitted Bert condescendingly, "but you're just the sons of commoners, while my father is a wealthy man, a banker and a leader in society. So I guess you can quickly understand that I'm going to cut a good deal wider swath here than you two fellows put together."

Greg Holmes, who had been following Dodge with a gradually widening grin of amazement, now burst into a hearty laugh.

"Well, what's so awfully funny!" demanded Bert.

"You--you--social swell!" exploded Greg hilariously. "Oh--wow!"

"Oh, enjoy yourself in your own way," retorted Bert in decided anger, "but you'll soon find out."

Then looking about the room, he remarked, going on a new tack:

"I must say, you fellows are rather badly provided for showing the social courtesies here. You haven't even a chair for a guest."

"Plebes are allowed only two chairs to a room," remarked d.i.c.k, rising and pulling forward his own chair. "Take mine. I'll sit on the corner of my table."

"There's just one chair in my room," continued Bert, as he seated himself. "That's one reason I want to see the janitor, or steward, or whoever the fellow is. I'm going to tell him to put in a decent allowance of chairs."

Greg Holmes went off into another fit of laughter.

"Janitor? Steward?" sputtered Holmes. "Whew! That's great!"

"There are no such servants here, Dodge," d.i.c.k explained. "In fact, every cadet has to learn to wait on himself in nearly everything. A plebe, too, has to learn to be content with whatever he has given him. If he even makes any talk about it he is called b.j. A cadet who is found guilty of b.j.-ety has to put in all his spare time learning to walk on one ear."