Class action, when it is invoked at West Point, is often more effective than even the work of a court-martial.  If the class calls upon a member to resign and return to civil life, he might as well do so without delay.  If he does not, he will be “sent to Coventry” by every other cadet in the corps.  If he has the nerve to disregard this and graduate, he will go forth into the Army only to meet a like fate at the hands of every officer in the service.  He will always be “cut” as long as he attempts to wear the uniform.

“Its a shame to let this fellow Haynes stay in the service,” Dick muttered.  “And yet my hands are tied.  With my lack of evidence I can’t drag him before either a legal or an informal court.  The only thing I can do is to let matters go on, trusting to the fact that, sooner or later, Haynes will overstep the bounds less cautiously, and that he’ll find himself driven out of the uniform.”

On going to his quarters for a study period one afternoon further along in April, Haynes found himself unable to concentrate his mind on the lesson before him.  He was alone, his roommate being absent with a section at recitation.

As he sat thus idle at the study table, Haynes toyed with a little black pin.  How the pin had come into his possession he did not even recall.  It was a pin of ordinary size, one of the kind much used by milliners.

Having nothing else to do, Haynes idly thrust the head of the pin repeatedly in under the sole at the toe of his right boot.  Somewhat to his surprise the head went well in, then stopped at last, fitting snugly and stiffly in place.

“If I had a fellow sitting in front of me, what a startling jab I could give him with the toe of my boot,” grinned the turnback.

Then, suddenly, there came a very queer look into his face.

“Why, I reckon I could jab something else with a pin, beside the flesh of another cadet,” he muttered.

Then, trembling slightly, the turnback bent down and carefully extracted the pin.  His next act was to fasten it very securely on the inside of the front of his fatigue blouse, where the black uniform braid prevented its being seen.

Of late the second class cavalry drills had been in the open.  That day, however, it was raining heavily, and the order had been passed for the squads to report at the riding hall.

Soon after Haynes’s roommate had returned from recitation the signal sounded for the squad that was to report at the riding hall.

Haynes rose, drawing on his uniform raincoat.

“What’s the matter with you, Haynesy?” inquired his roommate.

“Why do you ask, Pierson?”

“There was a very queer look on your face,” replied Cadet Pierson.  I couldn’t tell whether it were a diabolical look or merely a sardonic grin.”

“I was just thinking of a story I heard told years ago,” lied Haynes glibly.

“I don’t believe I’d care to hear that story, then,” returned Pierson dryly.