At all, that is to say, save one table. That was the table at
which Cadet Captain Richard Prescott sat.
Greg was the first to make the discovery. He turned to Brown
with a remark. Brown glanced at Holmes, nodding slightly. All
the other cadets at that board were eating, their eyes on their
plates.
"What's the matter?" quizzed Holmes. "You're ideas moving slowly?"
Again Brown glanced up at his questioner, but that was all.
"How's the cold lamb, Durville?" questioned Dick.
Durville passed the meat without speaking, nor did he look directly
at Prescott.
Dick and Greg exchanged swift glances. They understood. The
blow had fallen.
_The Silence had been given_!
Dick felt a hot flush mounting to his temples. The blood there
seemed to sting him. Then, as suddenly, he went white, clammy
perspiration beading his forehead and temples.
This was the verdict of the class---of the corps? He had offended
the strict traditions and inner regulations of the cadet corps, and
was pronounced unfit for association!
That explained the constrained atmosphere at this one table, the
one spot in all the big room where silence replaced the merry
chatter of mealtime.
"The fellows are mighty unjust!" thought Dick bitterly, as he
went on eating mechanically. He no longer knew, really, whether
he were eating meat, bread or potato.
That was the first thought of Prescott.
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