Cadet Holmes sketched out, on the back of an envelope, the demonstration of a short problem.

Tom and Harry looked on laughingly, at first. Then their eyes began to open.

"Do you really have to dig up that sort of stuff at West Point,"

demanded Reade.

"Yes," nodded d.i.c.k. "And now I'll show you another easy one, belonging to descriptive geometry."

The two young engineers looked on and listened for a few moments.

"Stop!" commanded Hazelton, at last. "My head is beginning to buzz!"

"If that's the sort of gibberish you have to learn, I'm more than ever glad that I didn't go to West Point," proclaimed Reade.

The old-time chums had eaten their fill of ice cream some time before, but they still sat about the table, chatting gayly.

"There's one thing you never really told us about in your letters,"

muttered Tom. "You wrote us that Bert Dodge had resigned from the Military Academy, but you didn't tell us why. Now, that fellow, Dodge, never gave up anything good that he didn't have to give up. Was he kicked out of the Academy?"

"That story isn't known in Gridley," replied Prescott, lowering his voice. "Dodge tells people that he left because he didn't like the crowd or the life there. We haven't changed the story any since our return. We'll tell you fellows, for we never used to have any secrets from you in the old days. But you mustn't pa.s.s the yarn around."

"No," grimaced Greg. "You mustn't tell the story around. Dodge has threatened to have us imprisoned for life, for criminal libel, if we allow his secret to reach profane ears."

"Just why did Dodge leave West Point?" asked Reade.

"He was invited to," replied Prescott, "by a cla.s.s committee on honor."

"I thought it was something like that," grunted Reade.

Then, in low tones that could not be overheard by other patrons of the ice cream place, d.i.c.k Prescott told the story of Dodge's cribbing at West Point, and of the way that Bert nearly succeeded in palming his guilt off on to Prescott.

"I'd believe every word of that yarn, even if a plumb stranger told it to me," declared Hazelton. "It has all the earmarks of truth. It's a complete story of just what Bert Dodge would do in one form or another, in any walk of life."

"But you fellows won't repeat insisted d.i.c.k.

"And thereby have us consigned to prison cells for the balance of our unworthy lives?" mocked Greg.

"You know us better than to think that we'd blab," retorted Tom half indignantly.

"You had a right to know, though," Prescott went on.

"d.i.c.k & Co. always were a close corporation," laughed Hazelton.

"And I hope the time will never come when we can't tell our secrets to each other."

"I am sorry you fellows have so short a leave," murmured d.i.c.k.

"Why, What would you want us to do!" queried Tom.

"Greg and I would be tickled to death if you were going to be here all summer," d.i.c.k answered. "In the first place, just for the sake of having your company. In the next place, we'd think it great if you could go back to West Point with us when our furlough is over. If you could be there, over a Sat.u.r.day and a Sunday, we'd have time to show you a lot about the life there. You'd feel acquainted from the start, for lots of the fellows of our cla.s.s have heard about you. You'd get a great reception."

"Gridley must seem dull, after your life in the West," mused Cadet Holmes.

"Oh, I don't believe there's any place where you get excitement all the time," declared Tom. "And there's no place so dull that it doesn't have a little excitement once in a while."

Bang! bang! bang! sounded several sharp explosions of firearms out in the street.

"There's some, right now!" muttered Greg, jumping up. "Come along!"

Bang! bang! bang!

As they ran forward toward the door of the ice cream place the young men saw people fleeing in frantic haste along Main Street.

Five or six of these fugitives darted into the ice cream place.

As they did so, Chief of Police Simmons backed into the same doorway. He had his revolver in his right hand, while he called back over his shoulder to the owner of the store:

"Granby, telephone the station for my reserves. The Indians and cowboys of the Wild West Show are on a rampage, and shooting up Gridley. Tell Sergeant Cluny, from me, to bring the reserves on the run!"

Bang! bang! bang!

Up the street came a picturesque, dangerous looking group. Three men in cowboy hats, flannel shirts and "chaps," with revolver holsters dangling from their belts, and each with a pair of automatic revolvers in his hands, came along. Just behind this trio were two indians, painted and wearing gaudy blankets. The Indian were armed like the cowboys. It was evident that all the members of the wild band were partially intoxicated.

Bang! bang! bang!

"Get back into the store, you young men!" ordered Chief Simmons crisply. "These heathen are pie-eyed and they'll shoot you up quicker than a flash!"

"Who, That lot of freaks?" demanded Tom contemptuously. "d.i.c.k!

Greg! Indians are the specialty of the Army. You go after the redskins, while Harry and I tame these bad men!"

Like a flash, ere Chief Simmons could interfere, the four young men were off. Straight up to the "raiders" dashed the former High School boys.

One of the Indians wheeled, firing a fusillade just over Prescott's head.

"Oh, stop that noise!" ordered d.i.c.k dryly.

Before the Indian could guess it, Prescott had leaped in, had grabbed the redskin by a famous old Gridley football tackle and had sent the rampaging Indian to the ground Greg, equally reckless, floored the other Indian and sat on his chest.

Tom Reade made a bolt for the fiercest-looking cowboy.

"Stop spoiling the pure air on a hot day, and give me those guns!"

commanded Reade, going straight at the fellow.

The big cowboy wheeled, aiming both weapons at Reade.

"Get back!" ordered the shooter. "If ye don't I'll pump ye full of hole-makers! I'm bad! I'm a wolf, and this is my day to howl.

I'm a wolf---d'ye catch that, partners?"

"Then back to the menagerie for yours!" muttered Reade dryly.

"And first of all fork those guns over. You're making the air smell of sulphur."