Yet it was with a sense of weariness that Dick turned out for supper formation.  There were more pleasant greetings as he moved to his place in ranks, and that made him feel better for the moment.  At his table at cadet mess he was amiably and cheerily included in all the merry conversation that flew around.

Then back to quarters Dick went, and soon saw Greg and Anstey, looking their spooniest in their full-dress uniforms, depart on the mission of dragging.

Prescott hardly sighed as he moved over to the study table.  He read over a score of times the notes the girls had sent him.

Then came an orderly, who handed in a telegram.  Dick opened this with nervous fingers.  His eyes lit up when he found that it came from Annapolis.  The message read: 

"Dear old Dick!  You’re the straightest fellow on earth!  We know.  Don’t let anybody get your goat!”

"Darrin And Dalzell, Third Class, U.S.  Naval Academy."

“Dear old Gridley chums!” murmured the cadet, the moisture coming to his eyes.  “Yes, they should know me, if anyone does.  Those who know me best are all flocking to offer comfort.  Then—–­hang it!—–­I don’t need any.  When a fellow’s friends all believe in him, what more is there to ask?  But I wonder how the news reached Annapolis?  I know—–­Belle has telegraphed Dave.  She knew he’d stand by me.”

It was a very cheery Prescott to whom Anstey and Holmes returned.  Anstey could remain but an instant, but that instant was enough to cheer the Virginian, the change in Prescott was so great.

In the few moments left before taps sounded, Greg told his chum all he could of the hop, and of the resolute conduct of Laura and Belle in refusing absolutely to be downcast.

“Have you sent any word home?” asked Greg.

“To my father and mother?  Not a word!  Nor shall I, until this nightmare is all over,” breathed Dick fervently.

“Laura wanted to know,” Holmes explained.  “Of course Mrs. Bentley had to send some word to her husband, to account for their longer absence, but she cautioned Dr. Bentley not to let a word escape.”

To himself, as he reached up to extinguish the light, Greg muttered: 

“I believe that unhanged scoundrel, Dodge, will see to it that word reaches Gridley!”

In this conjecture Holmes must have been correct, for, the next forenoon, there came a telegram, full of agony, from Prescott’s mother, imploring further particulars at once.  Mrs. Prescott’s dispatch mentioned a “rumor.”

“That’s Dodge’s dirty work,” growled Holmes.  “So that fastens the guilt of this whole thing upon him—–­the dirty dog!”

Yet how to fasten any guilt upon Dodge?  Or how force from him any admission that would aid to free Cadet Prescott from the awful charge against him that had now been made official?

That Sunday, Greg, besides paying a long visit in the hotel parlor, and seeing to the dispatch of Dick’s answer to his mother, also called, under permission, at the home of Lieutenant Topham, of the tactical department.  Prescott had decided to ask that officer to act as his counsel at the court-martial.