"I'll tell you what I'll do, Haynes," proposed d.i.c.k pleasantly.

"I can see your point of view---from your side. I don't believe it would be the view of the cla.s.s. But, if you wish, I'll call a cla.s.s meeting and lay the whole proposition before them."

"You mean that you'll try out cla.s.s feeling by resigning and suggesting me for your successor?" asked Haynes eagerly.

"No; I'll state the substance of our conversation this afternoon, and then you can say any thing you may have to say on the subject.

Then I will put it to the cla.s.s whether they want me to resign so that you can be elected in my place."

Haynes turned several shades more red.

"That would make a fool of me!" flashed the turnback.

"It would be a statement of your own proposition, wouldn't it?"

asked d.i.c.k, with another smile.

"Stop your laughing at me, you-----"

"Careful!" warned d.i.c.k, but he threw a lot of emphasis into the single word.

"Prescott," choked the turnback, "you're trying to make my idea and myself ridiculous!"

"Haven't I stated your proposition fairly?" challenged Prescott.

"You think that, because you are a turnback, you have more right than I to the cla.s.s presidency. If that isn't your att.i.tude, then I shall be glad to apologize."

"Oh, pshaw, there's no use in trying to make you see the matter with my eyes," muttered Haynes in disgust.

"I'm afraid not, Haynes. If the fellows don't want me as president I would insist on resigning. But I am sure the cla.s.s would rather have almost anyone than a turnback. I hope, however, there is no hard feeling?"

Prescott held out his right hand frankly.

"I hope there will be, as you say, no hard feeling," mumbled Haynes, accepting the proffered hand weakly.

Then the turnback left the room. Down the corridor, however, he strode heavily, angrily, muttering to himself:

"The conceited puppy!"

CHAPTER XI

BRAYTON MAKES A BIG APPEAL

For a moment or two d.i.c.k stood looking out of his window, across the far-stretching plain that included the parade ground and the athletic field.

In the near distance the football squad was finishing up its practice in the last moments of daylight. Brayton was captain of the Army eleven, and was a good deal discouraged.

"Queer idea Haynes had!" muttered d.i.c.k to himself.

Then he turned back to his desk and to the neglected chapter on "Sound" in natural philosophy.

d.i.c.k, however, was not fated to study much.

First of all, back came Greg, opening the door and looking in inquiringly.

"Haynes has gone, I see," murmured Cadet Holmes.

"Yes."

"To stay away?"

"I rather think so," nodded Cadet Prescott, without looking up from the pages of his textbook.

"Then there'll be some show for a poor, hard-working goat," muttered Greg, closing the door behind him and falling into his chair.

"The goat," at West Point, is one who is in the lowest section or two of his cla.s.s. Greg was not yet a "goat," this year, though he lived in dread of becoming one.

Hearing a yell from the plain beyond, however, Holmes went over to the window and looked out.

"d.i.c.k, old ramrod," exclaimed Cadet Holmes wistfully, "I wish we stood well enough to be out on the football grill."

"So do I," muttered d.i.c.k. "But what's the with the goat section overtaking us at double time?"

Greg sighed, then went back to his books.

For fifteen or twenty minutes both young men read on, trying to fasten something of natural philosophy in their minds.

Now there came a quick knock, immediately after which the door was flung open and Brayton marched in.

"See here, you coldfeet," began the captain of the Army eleven sternly, "what do you two mean by staying in here and boning dry facts?"

"Just to avoid being drowned in goat's milk," smiled d.i.c.k, turning a page and looking up.

Brayton, regardless of these heroic efforts to study, threw one leg across the corner of the study table.

"You two fellows came out, in the first work of the squad, and did stunts that filled us all with hope," pursued Brayton severely.

"Then, suddenly, you failed to show up any more. And all this, despite the fact that we have the poorest eleven the Army has shown in six years."

"Only men well up in their academic work are allowed to play on the eleven, replied d.i.c.k.

"You fellows are well enough up to make the team."

"But we're nervous about our studies," rejoined Prescott.

"Nervous about your studies!" cried Brayton sharply. "Yet not a whit anxious for the honor of the Army that you hope to serve in all your lives. Now, you fellows know, as well as any of us, that we don't much mind being walked over by a crack college eleven.

But we want to beat the Navy, year in and year out. Why, fellows, this year the Navy has one of the best elevens in its history.

All the signs are that the middies are going to walk roughshod over us. And yet you two fellows, whom we need, are sulking in quarters, poring over books---nervous about your studies!"

Scorn rang in Brayton's heavy tones.