“Very good, sir,” Prescott answered, saluting.

“And then you may go to your own tent and retire, Mr. Prescott.  I fancy the plebes have been good to-night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a rather heavy heart, though outwardly betraying no sign, Prescott walked along until he reached Jordan’s tent, where he delivered the order from the O.C.

“Did you hear that, old man?” growled Jordan to his tentmate, after the cadet captain had gone.

“Pretty rough!” returned the tentmate sleepily.

Rough?  The first class was seething when it received the word next morning, for it was the common belief that Prescott must have shadowed and followed his classmate in order to entrap him.

“It’s surely time for class action now,” Durville told several of his classmates.

CHAPTER IV

THE CLASS COMMITTEE CALLS

Outwardly A company and the entire corps of cadets was as placid and unruffled as ever when the two battalions marched to breakfast that morning.

One conversant with military procedure, however, would have noted that Jordan, being a prisoner, marched in the line of the file closers.

And Mr. Jordan’s face was wholly sulky, strive as he would to banish the look and appear indifferent.

Even to a fellow naturally as unsocial as the cadet now in arrest, it was no joke to be confined to his tent even for the space of a week, except when engaged in official duties; and to be obliged, two afternoons in a week, to march in full equipment and carry his piece, for three hours in the barracks quadrangle under the watchful eyes of a cadet corporal.

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.”