“Confidence deserves to be paid in the same coin, Greg,” warned his chum.  “Did you leave any girl—–­back in Gridley—–­or elsewhere.”

“Dick, old ramrod,” replied Cadet Holmes, frankly, as he finished drawing on his glove, “I’m unpledged, and, to the best of my belief, I’m wholly heart free.”

“Look out that you keep so for two or three years more, then,” laughed Dick, and Holmes, nodding lightly, strode away.

Despite the hop, there were some visitors in camp that evening.  Dick was presently invited over to join a group that was entertaining three college boys who had dropped off at West Point for two or three days.

Greg spent an hour or so at the hop.  He was introduced to Miss Wilton, a pretty, black-eyed little girl, and danced one number with her.  He presently secured another partner.  But too many of the cadets were “stagging it” that night.  There were not feminine partners enough to go around.

“My cue is to cut out, I guess,” mused Greg, finding himself near the entrance to the ballroom.

Once outside, Greg drew off his gloves, thrusting them in under the breast of his gray uniform coat.  He wasn’t quite decided whether to go back to Cullum later.  But at present he wanted to stroll in the dark and to think.

“I reckon I’ll take Dick’s line of philosophy, and cut girls a good deal,” decided Greg.  “Yet, at West Point in the summer, it’s either girls or mischief.  Mischief, if carried too far, gets a fellow bounced out of the Academy, while girls—–­I wonder which is safer?”

Still guessing, Cadet Holmes wandered a good way from Cullum Hall, and was not again seen that night on the polished dancing floor.

* * * * * * * *

Anstey had gone visiting some other yearlings.  Dick, after leaving the college boys and their hosts, felt that a slow stroll outside of camp would be one of the pleasantest ways of passing the time until taps at 10.30.  Even after the rain, the night was close and sultry.

“Don’t you sing, Prescott?” called a first classman as Dick passed near the head of the color line.  “Some of our glee-club fellows are getting together to try some old home songs.”

But Dick shook his head.  Though he possessed a fair voice, the singing of sentimental or mournful ditties was not in his line that night.  He heard the strumming of guitars and mandolins as he left camp behind.

Dick did not hurry, even to get away from the music.  He kept on up the road, and by the hotel, but was careful not to enter the grounds, though three or four yearlings called gayly to him from the hotel veranda.  He had no permission for tonight to visit the hotel.

“I’m not going to get into a row with the K.C. for a stupid little violation like that,” he muttered.

Presently Dick’s stroll took him over in the neighborhood of “Execution Hollow,” the depression in the ground below where the reveille gun is stationed.