“Miss Griffin?”

“Yes!”

“Anstey,” continued Dick, turning quickly to hide a frown, “I shall have to draft you!”

“I was bo’n and reared a gentleman, suh!” replied the Virginian, with cordial gravity.

CHAPTER VII

THE FOLKS FROM HOME

Two tall, superbly erect young men, showing the soldier in every line of bearing, stepped jauntily along the road leading to the hotel just before five o’clock.

Each wore the fatigue cap of the cadet, the trim gray, black-trimmed blouse of the cadet uniform.  Their white duck trousers were the spooniest as to spotlessness and crease.

Dick and Greg went straight to the hotel office.

“The register, please,” asked Prescott, for the clerk’s back was turned over some work that he was doing.

This was not a request for the hotel register but for the cadet register.  Understanding, the clerk turned and passed a small book known as the cadet register.  He opened it to the page for the day, while Prescott was reaching for a pen.

In this register both young men inscribed their names.  Each had secured permission from the O.C. to visit the hotel.  At the close of every day, a transcript of the day’s signatures by cadets is taken, and this transcript goes to the O.C.  The clerk will send no cards for cadets who have not first registered.  The transcript of registry, which goes to the O.C., enables the latter to make sure that no cadets have visited the hotel without permission.

Prescott laid down his visiting card.  Holmes laid another beside it.

“Are Mrs. Bentley, Miss Bentley and Miss Meade here?” queried Dick.

After consulting the hotel register the clerk nodded.

“Our cards to Mrs. Bentley, please.”

“Front!  Fifty-seven!” called the clerk to a bellboy.

“Thank you,” acknowledged Prescott.

“Wheeling, the young men turned from the office, striding down the hotel veranda side by side.  They turned in at the ladies’ entrance, then, caps in hand, stood waiting in the corridor.  It is a rule that a cadet must enter no part of the hotel except the parlor.  He must see his friends either there, or on the veranda.  There is a story told that a general officer’s wife visited West Point, for the first time, to see her son, a new cadet at West Point.  The plebe son called—–­with permission—–­sent up his card, and was summoned to his mother’s room.  He went.  A few minutes later there was a knock at the door.  The clerk stood there, apologetic but firm.

“I am very sorry, madam, but the regulations provide that your son can visit you only in the parlor.”

“But I am the wife of Major General Blank!” exclaimed the surprised lady.

“But, Mrs. Blank, your son is a cadet, and subject to the regulations on the subject.  He must either go to the parlor at once, or leave the hotel instantly.  If he refuses to do either I am forced to telephone to the tactical officer in charge.”