Dick Prescott's Third Year at West Point Part 7

Bert Dodge was talking almost in whispers with a young fellow named Fessenden, who had discharged from the bank in which Bert's father was vice president.

"You do my trick---put it through for me, Fessenden---and I'll do my best with my father to get you back in the bank," Bert promised.

"Even if I fail in that, I'll pay you well, in addition to the money I've just given you."

"Oh, it won't be a hard job to put through," nodded young Fessenden, understandingly. "I can find two fellows who have nerve enough, and who will go into court and swear to anything I want them to."

"That's the talk!" glowed young Dodge. "You will testify that d.i.c.k Prescott was talking with you, and that he told innumerable lies to blacken my name that he libeled me!"

CHAPTER IV

WHAT ABOUT MR. CAMERON?

One place that d.i.c.k Prescott made it a point to visit early in his furlough was the office of the morning "Blade," for which paper, in his old High School days, the cadet had worked as a local reporter "on s.p.a.ce."

A "s.p.a.ce writer" is one who is paid so much per column for all matter of his that is published in the paper.

Had it not been for the "Blade" d.i.c.k Prescott would not have been as well supplied with pocket money as he had been during his High School days.

Everyone about the "Blade" office, in the old days, had expected that Prescott, at the end of his High School course, would join the "Blade" staff as a "regular." But d.i.c.k had had his own plans about West Point, although he had kept his intentions a secret from nearly every one but his chums.

Early one bright June afternoon d.i.c.k strolled into the "Blade"

office.

"Why, hullo, my boy!" cried Editor Pollock, jumping up out of his chair and coming forward, hand outstretched. Bradley, the news editor, and Len Spencer, the "star" reporter, now growing comically fat, rushed forward to meet the cadet.

"Sit down, d.i.c.k, and let's hear all about West Point," urged Mr.

Pollock, placing a chair beside his own, while the other members of the staff crowded about. "What sort of a place is West Point, and how do you like it there?"

d.i.c.k smilingly gave them a lively account of life at the United States Military Academy.

"I hope you're keeping track of all this, Len," nodded the editor to Reporter Spencer. "Tell us plenty more, too d.i.c.k. We want to give you and Holmes at least a bully two-column write-up."

d.i.c.k's cheery look suddenly changed to one of mild alarm.

"Do you want to do me a big favor, Mr. Pollock?"

"Anything up to a page, my boy, and you know it," replied the editor heartily. "We still regard you as one of the 'Blade' family."

"The favor I'm going to ask, Mr. Pollock, is that you don't give Greg and myself a write-up."

The editor looked so hurt that Prescott made haste to add, earnestly:

"Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Pollock. But you simply cannot imagine the trouble that a fine write-up in a home paper may make for a cadet. If I were a plebe, now, the upper cla.s.sman would get hold of the write-up, somehow, and they'd make me read it aloud, at least a hundred times, while upper cla.s.smen stood about and congratulated me on being such a fine fellow as the paper described. As Greg and I are now second cla.s.sman, we couldn't be hazed in quite that way. But the other fellows would find some other way of using that home-paper write-up as a club for pounding us every now and then. Mr. Pollock, believe me, cadet is mighty lucky whose home paper doesn't say anything about him."

"What is the matter?" asked the editor gravely. "Are the other cadets jealous?"

"No; it isn't that," Prescott answered. "That sort of thing is done, at West Point, to keep from getting the 'big head.' Probably your memory goes back easily to the Spanish War days. You will remember that Mr. Hobson, of the Navy, sank the Merrimac in the harbor at Santiago, so that the Spanish s.h.i.+ps, when they got out, had to come out in single file. Mr. Hobson has a younger brother then at the Military Academy. Well, the story still runs at West Point that Military Cadet Hobson was forced to read aloud all the best things about his brother in the Navy that the other cadets could find in the newspapers. Besides that, Cadet Hobson, so we are told today, had to 'sail' chips on a tub of water, at the same time bombarding the chips with pebbles and cheering for his brother. At West Point it doesn't pay a cadet to be famous, even in the light of reflected glory. Now, that is why I beg you, not to give Greg and myself the write-up that you propose."

"All right, then," sighed the editor.

"On the other hand, Mr. Pollock, I'll tell you all manner of lively and printable facts about West Point, if you won't mention Greg or myself or even mention the fact that Gridley has any cadets at the Military Academy."

"That will have to answer," nodded Mr. Pollock. "But we wanted to do something big for you, d.i.c.k."

"And you'll be doing something very big for us, if you don't mention us at all," smiled Prescott.

So the "Blade" had a good deal of interesting reading about West Point the next morning. Many Gridleyites were not satisfied because neither Prescott nor Holmes was mentioned in connection with the Military Academy.

The second time that Mr. Pollock met his former reporter was on the street.

"I've been kicking myself, d.i.c.k, because I forgot something the other day," declared the editor. "I have one of the nicest, gentlest little trotting mares in this part of the state, and a very comfortable light buggy with top and side curtains. I hardly ever use the rig in hot weather. Now, won't you often have use for a horse and buggy while you're at home? If so, just ring up Getchel's Livery at any time, day or night, and tell 'em to hitch up against your coming. Will you?"

d.i.c.k tried hard to find words in which to thank Mr. Pollock for the generous offer.

First of all, Prescott took Holmes out driving, one forenoon, to "try out" the mare. The little animal proved speedy but tractable---a wholly safe driving horse.

"I'm not a betting man," quoth Greg, "but I'll lay a wager that I can guess who gets the next drive behind this horse.

"Post your wager," laughed d.i.c.k gayly.

"Lau-----"

"Wrong! My mother gets the next drive."

And so she did, that same afternoon. But the following afternoon Prescott, after a good deal of attention to his personal appearance, walked to Getchel's and drove away from there behind the mare.

The next stop was at the house of Dr. Bentley.

Yet, when Cadet Prescott caught his first glimpse of the broad, cool veranda of the doctor's house, the young man felt a sudden throb of the heart.

Another young man---he looked to be somewhat under thirty---was seated in a big rocker, close to Laura. Both young people were laughing gayly before Miss Bentley caught sight of d.i.c.k.

"You're occupied, I see," called Prescott lightly, though the tone cost him an effort.

"Come right up, d.i.c.k," called Laura, so the cadet leaped from the buggy, hitching the horse. The he turned into the broad walk and gained the veranda, where he was presented to Mr. Cameron.

Mr. Cameron greeted the cadet pleasantly, yet didn't seem overjoyed at his presence. Nor did Mr. Cameron seem in the least inclined to take himself away.

Usually most self-possessed, d.i.c.k Prescott fidgeted a trifle, and felt uncomfortable now. He wondered if good taste did not call for him to take himself away after a brief conversation. It was Laura who finally came to the rescue.

"d.i.c.k," she laughed, "there's something on your mind. I'm afraid I shall have to help you out. Did you come to ask me to go driving?"

"Yes," d.i.c.k nodded. "But of course I realize that some other time will be better."