It was in the evening, immediately after the return of the corps from supper, when Lieutenant Denton had sent for Cadet Captain Prescott.

“Mr. Prescott,” began the O.C., “there has been some trouble, lately, as you undoubtedly know, with plebes running the guard after taps.  Now, our plebes are men very new to the West Point discipline, and they do not appreciate the seriousness of their conduct.  Until the young men have had a little more training, we wish, if possible, to save them from the consequences of their lighter misdeeds.  Of course, if a cadet, plebe or otherwise, is actually found outside the guard line after taps, then we cannot excuse his conduct.  This is where the ounce of prevention comes in.  Mr. Prescott, I wish you would be up and around the camp between taps and midnight to-night.  Keep yourself in the background a bit, and see if you can stop any plebes who may be prowling before they have had a chance to get outside the guard lines.  If you intercept any plebes while they are still within camp limits, demand of them their reasons for being out of their tents.  If the reasons are not entirely satisfactory, turn them over to the cadet officer of the day.  Any plebe so stopped and turned over to the cadet officer of the day will be disciplined, of course, but his punishment will be much lighter than if he were actually caught outside the guard lines.  You understand your instructions, Mr. Prescott?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“That is all, Mr. Prescott.”

Saluting, Dick turned and left the tent.

“That’s just like Lieutenant Denton,” thought Dick, as he marched away to his own company street.  “Some of the tacs. would just as soon see the plebe caught cold, poor little beast.  But Lieutenant Denton can remember the time when he was a cadet here himself, and he wants to see the plebe have as much of the beginner’s chance as can be given.”

As Dick pushed aside the flap and entered his tent, he beheld his chum and roommate, Greg Holmes, now a cadet lieutenant, carefully transferring himself to his spoony dress uniform.

“Going to the hop to-night, old ramrod?” asked Greg carelessly, though affectionately.

“Not in my line of hike,” yawned Prescott.  “You know I’m no hopoid.”

“Oh, loyal swain!” laughed Greg in mock admiration.  “You hop but little oftener than once a year, when Laura comes on from the home town!  You throw away nearly all of the pleasures of the waxed floor.”

“Even though but once a year, I go as often as I want,” Dick answered, with a pleasant smile.

“But see here, ramrod, an officer is expected to be a gentleman, and a fellow can’t be an all-around gentleman unless he is at ease with the ladies.  What sort of practice do you give yourself?”

“You’re dragging a femme to the hop tonight?” queried Dick.

“Yes, sir,” admitted Greg promptly.

“Then you’re—–­pardon me—–­you’re engaged to the young lady, of course?”