This penalty would last during the remaining weeks of the encampment
and would be pronounced upon Jordan as soon as the commandant of
cadets perfunctorily confirmed the temporary order of Lieutenant
Denton.
Dick, at the head of A company, looked as impassive as ever, though
he felt far from comfortable.
Through the ranks, wherever first classmen walked, excitement
was seething.
When Prescott was seated at table in the cadet mess hall, Greg,
who sat next his chum, turned and raised his eyebrows briefly, as
though to say:
"There's something warm in the air."
Dick's momentary glance in return as much as said:
"I know it."
None of the other cadets at the same table turned to address Prescott
directly, with the single exception of Greg Holmes. True, when
Dick had occasion, twice or thrice, to address other men at his
table, they answered him, though briefly.
Whatever was in the air it had not broken yet. That was as much
as Prescott could guess.
The instant that they had returned to camp, and the two chums
were in their tent, Greg whispered fiercely:
"That sulker, Jordan, is putting up trouble for you, as sure as
you're alive."
"Then I've given him a bully handle to his weapon," admitted Dick
Prescott dryly.
They were hustling into khaki field uniform now, and there was
little time for comment; none for Greg to go outside and find
out what was really in the air.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51