Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point Part 23

"Have I permission to ask a question, sir?" asked d.i.c.k in an almost hollow voice.

"Proceed, Mr. Prescott."

"Is the paper in my handwriting, sir?"

"It is not," declared the instructor. "Most of it is in typewriting, with two figures drawn crudely in ink. There are three or four typewriting machines on the post to which a cadet may find easy access. You may examine this piece of paper, Mr. Prescott, if you think that will aid you to throw any light on the matter."

d.i.c.k stepped forward, lurching slightly. Most of the silent men of the section took advantage of this slight distraction to s.h.i.+ft their feet to new positions. The noise grated in that awful silence.

How d.i.c.k's hand shook as he reached for the paper. At first his eyes were too blurred for him to make out clearly what was on the paper. But at last he made it all out.

"I am very sorry, sir. This paper tells me nothing."

Captain Abbott's gaze was fixed keenly on the young man's face.

White-faced Prescott, shaking and ghastly looking, showed all the evidences of detected, overwhelmed guilt.

Innocent men often do the same.

"You may return the paper and take your seat, Mr. Prescott."

As Prescott turned away he made a powerful effort to hold his head erect, and to look fearlessly before him.

It was a full minute, yet, before the bugle would sound through the Academic Building to end the recitation period. d.i.c.k was not the only one in this section room who found the wait intolerable.

But at last the bugle notes were heard.

"The section is dismissed," announced Captain Abbott. Dunstan, the section marcher, formed his men and led them thence. No man in the section held his head more erect than did Prescott, who was conscious of his own absolute innocence in the affair.

Yet, when he reached his room, and sank down at his study table, a groan escaped d.i.c.k Prescott.

His head fell forward, cus.h.i.+oned in his folded arms.

Thus Holmes found him on entering the room.

"Why, old ramrod, what on earth is the matter?" gasped Greg.

A groan from his chum was the only answer.

At that moment another step, brisk and official, was heard in the corridor. There was a short rap on the door, after which Unwine, cadet officer of the day, wearing his red sash and sword, stepped into the room.

"Mr. Prescott, you are ordered in close arrest in your quarters until further orders."

"Yes, sir," huskily replied Prescott, who had struggled to his feet and now stood at attention.

As Unwine wheeled, marching from the room, d.i.c.k sank again over his study table.

"d.i.c.k, old ramrod," pleaded Greg terrified, "what on earth-----"

"Greg," came the anguished moan, "they're going to try to fire me from West Point for a common cheat---and I'm afraid they'll do it, too!"

CHAPTER XIII

IN CLOSE ARREST

Ever since Greg Holmes first came to West Point he had been learning the repose and the reserve of the trained soldier.

Yet if ever his face betrayed utter abandonment to amazement it was now.

Cadet Holmes gazed at his chum in open-mouthed wonder.

"By and by," uttered Greg fretfully, "You'll tell me the meaning of this joke, and why Mr. Unwine should be in it, too."

It was several minutes before Prescott turned around again. When he did there was a furious glare in his eyes.

"Greg, old chum! This is no joke. You heard Unwine. He was delivering an official order, not carrying an April-fool package."

"Well, then, what does it all mean?" demanded Greg stolidly, for he began to feel dazed. "But, first of all, old ramrod, aren't you going to get ready to fall in for dinner formation?"

Mechanically, wearily, d.i.c.k obeyed the suggestion.

As he did so he managed to tell the story of the section room to horrified Greg.

"See here," muttered Cadet Holmes energetically, "you didn't do anything in the cheating line. Every fellow in the corps will know that. So you'll have to set your wits at work to find the real explanation of the thing. How could that paper have gotten in with your handkerchief?"

"I don't know," replied d.i.c.k, shaking his head hopelessly.

"Well, you've got to find out, son, and that right quick! There isn't a moment to be lost! You didn't cheat---you wouldn't know how do a deliberately dishonest thing. But that reply won't satisfy the powers that be. You've got to get your answer ready, and do it with a rush."

"Perhaps you can also suggest where the rush should start," observed Prescott.

"Yes; I've got to suggest everything that is going to be done, I reckon," muttered Greg, resting a chum's loyal hand on d.i.c.k's shoulder. "Old ramrod, you're too dazed to think of anything, and I'm nearly as badly off myself. Say, did anyone, to your knowledge, have your handkerchief?"

Cadet Richard Prescott wheeled like a flash. His face had gone white again; he stared as though at a terrifying ghost.

"By the great horn spoon, Greg-----"

"Good! You're getting roused. Now, out with it!

"There were a lot of us standing about in the area, a little before time for the math. sections to start off."

"Yes? And some other fellow handled your handkerchief?"

"Bert Dodge found himself without one, and asked me for mine, to wipe a smear of black from the back of his hand."

"Which hand?"