Dick Prescotts Second Year at West Point | Page 3

to be a good one," declared Greg, as the rain settled down into a monotonous drumming against the shelter flap over the tent.
"A long one, too," spoke Prescott hopefully. "Greg, I actually believe that the wind is growing cool."
"Don't speak about it," begged Greg. "I'm superstitious."
"Superstitious?"
"Yes; if a rain comes up just after dress parade and guardmount, then it'll keep up the rest of the evening, when we might be enjoying ourselves after a strenuous day of work. But if you get to exulting over the rain that is to get us out of a drill or two, or bragging about a cool breeze getting lost around here in the daytime, then the raindrops cease at once, the wind dies down, and the sun comes out hotter than it has been before in a week!"
Dick took another look outside.
"Then I won't say that this rain is going to last all afternoon, but it is," Dick smiled.
"Now, you've spoiled it all!" cried Greg.
"Say, Holmesy, old spectre!" hailed a laughing voice across the street.
"Hullo!" Greg answered.
"Haven't a cold, have you?"
"No."
"Don't feel that you're marked for pneumonia?"
"What are you driving at Furlong?" Greg called back.
"Come along over, if you can brave the storm!" called yearling Furlong. "You and the rest."
"Shall we go over, Dick?" asked Greg, turning around.
"Yes; why not? If nothing else, we'll leave Anstey in peace for his big sleep. Duck out. I'll be on your heels."
The flap across the way was thrown open hospitably as Greg entered, followed by Cadet Prescott.
"Where's old Mason and Dixon?" demanded Furlong, alluding to the fact that Anstey was a Virginian.
"He has turned in for a big sleep," Greg informed their hosts.
"Great!" chuckled Furlong. "Let's peep in and throw a bucket of water over him. He'll wake up and think the tent is leaking."
"Don't you dare!" warned Dick, but he said it with a grin that robbed his rebuke of offence. "Old Mace (short for 'Mason and Dixon') has been tired out ever since being on guard the first night in camp. He actually needs the big sleep. I believe this rain is for his benefit."
"Say that again, and put it slowly," protested Furlong, looking bewildered.
Griffin and Dobbs, the other two yearlings who tented with him, laughed in amusement.
"Now, that we've lured the class president in here," continued Cadet Furlong, "we'll call this a class meeting. A quorum isn't necessary. You've got my campstool, Mr. President, so we'll consider you in the chair. May I state the business before the meeting?"
"Proceed, Mr. Furlong," requested Prescott gravely.
"Then, sir, and gentlemen-----" began Furlong.
"The chair calls you to order!" interrupted Dick sternly.
"Will the chair kindly explain the point of order?"
"It is out of order to make any distinction between the chair and 'gentlemen.'"
"I yield to the---the pride of the chair," agreed Furlong, with a comical bow. "Mr. Chairman and other gentlemen, the question that I wish to put is-----"
Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued:
"What are we going to do with the plebes?"
Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered:
"I take it, Miles---pardon me, Furlong, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes?"
"Same thing," contended the other yearling.
"Why should we do anything to them?" asked Dick gravely.
"Why should we---say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we---o-o-o-o-h!"
Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air.
"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.
"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what did you think of yearlings---last year?"
"What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't much matter now. Then I was an ignorant, stupid, unregenerate, unsophisticated, useless, worthless and objectionable member of the community. I hadn't advanced far enough to appreciate the very exalted position that a yearling holds by right."
"We now know, quite well," broke in Dobbs, "that it is a yearling's sacred and bounden duty to lick a plebe into shape in the shortest possible order. Though it never has been done, and never can be done inside of a year," he finished with a sigh.
"Do you seek words of wisdom from your class president?" Cadet Prescott inquired.
"Oh, yes, wise and worthy sir!" begged Furlong.
"Then this is almost the best that I can think of," Dick went on. It will never be possible to stamp out wholly the hazing of plebes at West Point. But we fellows can make a new record, if we will, by frowning on all severe and needless forms of hazing. I had the reputation of getting a lot of hazing last year, didn't I?"
"You surely did, old ramrod," murmured Furlong