"A merciful soldier wouldn't eat until he had seen his prisoner fed," tantalized another.

d.i.c.k had his cup of coffee at his mouth.

"Prescott, old man," commented fat Smith, "you'll be commended in general orders for distinguished bravery."

That was enough, in itself, to make d.i.c.k choke, but Smith emphasized his remark by slapping d.i.c.k on the back. An ounce of hot coffee, at least, "went down the wrong way." Choking and gasping for breath, trying to expel the coffee from his windpipe, and all the while obliged to lean well forward so as not to expel any of the coffee over the front of his blouse, d.i.c.k thought he never would get his breath again.

"Instead of feeding his prisoner, I believe Mr. Prescott has been eating some of his prisoner," observed Corporal Hasbrouck dryly.

"Mr. Prescott, himself, appears to be full of straw at present."

The general laugh that followed didn't make it any easier for the victim of all this nonsense. In laughing again d.i.c.k choked so that he began to turn slightly black.

"Dry up, you hyenas!" ordered Cadet Captain Reynolds, as he rushed to Prescott's relief. In a few moments the late sentry on number three was breathing easily again. He threw himself down on a mattress, and was soon asleep.

But in the morning he had to go through the ordeal ten-fold. As d.i.c.k went to his tent to change some articles of clothing Bert Dodge appeared in the company street.

"Hey, mister," called yearling Davis, after Bert, "I hear good news.

Last night the guard caught the chap who shanghaied you."

Even Greg and Anstey were prepared to quiz the "hero" of the comic episode of the night before.

"That was a fine comic opera performance, old chap," grinned Anstey.

"The next time you arrest a lay figure," suggested Greg, "at least be good enough to capture one that's stuffed with lemons."

"Oh, the straw figure was a lemon, of a kind," laughed the Virginian.

"Did the prisoner yell when you p.r.i.c.ked point of your bayonet in its flesh of husks?" Greg wanted to know.

"Do you expect the K.C. to mention you in orders for distinguished gallantry?" demanded Anstey.

"Or to skin you on a suspicion of stealing straw from the artillery stables?" snickered Greg.

"I know one funny thing about straw, anyway," declared Anstey, turning around to Holmes.

"What?" asked Greg.

"It's bound to tickle you," declared the Virginian gravely.

Even at breakfast, in the cadet mess, d.i.c.k failed to get away from his tormentors. One of the yearlings, seated at a table not far from the one at which Prescott sat, called out to a cla.s.smate:

"Queer thing about that prisoner bagged on number three last night. Did you hear who the prisoner turned out to be?"

"No-o-o," drawled the other yearling, while a hundred pairs of eyes were turned on flame-faced Prescott.

"It was the cla.s.s president of the beasts" (plebes).

"Kind of tough fate for the prisoner, though," railed another.

"What's that?"

"He's been sentenced to death. He is to be used as a target for the plebe squads in target practice."

"That isn't a sentence of death; it's a guarantee of safety."

This last sally turned the laugh on the entire plebe cla.s.s. d.i.c.k flushed worse than ever when he saw many of his cla.s.smates begin to squirm.

"They might, at least, take it all out on me, and leave the cla.s.s alone," muttered d.i.c.k to himself.

"Where are you going so fast, mister?" hailed a yearling, after the return to camp, as he beheld a plebe hurrying down a company street.

"I'm summoned as a witness before the general court-martial,"

called back Mr. Plebe, over his shoulder.

"Court-martial? I hadn't heard there was to be one."

"Yes, sir; they're going to try the prisoner caught on number three, sir."

The yearling turned away grinning, for once not deeming it necessary to rebuke a "beast" for attempting to make a smart answer.

Out on the range, at target practice, two mornings later, d.i.c.k did some especially bad shooting.

"Don't be afraid of hitting the target, Mr. Prescott," advised Lieutenant Gerould dryly. "It's made of something more substantial than straw."

A gleeful roar went up from some of the other "beasts."

Lieutenant Gerould eyed them in surprise, for this Army officer was one of the few at West Point who had not already heard of number three sentry's capture.

It was a fortnight ere Cadet Prescott could feel really secure against more "joshing" over the incident.

"I'm better satisfied than if we had done what we set out to do to that plebe," remarked Yearling Davis to his tentmates.

"Mr. Prescott is a rather decent sort--for a mere plebe," replied Poultney. "Do you know, I think he's almost glad that he caught the dummy we rigged for him. I believe the little beast would have hated to catch a uniform stuffed with human flesh."

CHAPTER XIV

POOR GREG CAN'T EXPLAIN

The weeks slipped by, though not without the friction of sincerely hard work.

d.i.c.k, Greg and many of their cla.s.smates, toiling, marching, drilling under the hot sun that shone on the West Point plain and drill areas, acquired deep coats of manly tan on faces, necks and hands.

In many a story of West Point life the summer encampment is made to appear "the good old summer time" of an Army career.

The West Point cadet knows better. It is a season of the hardest work.

At an hour when most city-dwelling boys are turning over in bed for another long and luxurious "snooze" the West Point cadet is up and doing in earnest.