Dick Prescotts Third Year at West Point | Page 7

necessary,"
replied Dick frigidly.
"What did you say?" insisted Dodge.
"We couldn't say much about you," Greg broke in icily. "You know,
you're hardly a fit subject for conversation."
"See here, you two fellows," warned Bert angrily, "you want to be
mighty careful what you say about me! Do you understand? A single

unfriendly word, that does any injury to my reputation, and I'll take it
out of you."
Prescott would not go to the length of sneering. He allowed an amused
twinkle to show in his eyes.
"On your way, Dodge that's the best course for you," advised Greg
coldly. "We're not interested in your threats of fight, and you ought to
know better, too, after some of the thumpings you've had."
"Fight?" jeered Dodge harshly. "You fellows seem to think you're still
in cadet barracks, and that all you have to do is to call me out, and that
my only recourse is to put up an argument before a class scrap
committee. But you fellows aren't at West Point just now, and cadet
committees don't run things here. You're back in civilization, where we
have laws and regular courts. Now, if I find that you fellows are saying
a single word against me I'll have you both arrested for criminal libel.
I'll have you put through the courts, too, and sent to jail. Then, when
you get out of jail, you can find out what your high and mighty West
Point friends think of that!"
Dodge finished with a harsh, sneering laugh, then turned on his heel.
"The cheap skate!" muttered Greg, looking after the retreating fellow.
"Humph! I'd like to see him make any trouble for us!"
"He may try it," muttered Prescott, gazing thoughtfully after their
ancient enemy.
"How?" demanded Greg. "We don't think him worth talking about
among decent people, so we'll give him not the slightest chance to
make any trouble."
"We won't give Dodge any real cause, of course," nodded Dick gravely.
"But a scoundrel like Dodge doesn't need real cause. That young man
has altogether more spending money than is good for his morals. Why,
with his money, Greg, Dodge would know how to find people,
apparently respectable, who would be willing to accept a price for

perjuring themselves."
"Humph!" uttered Greg.
"If Dodge could get such testimony, and his perjurers would stick to
their yarns," continued Dick, "then the young scoundrel might be
actually able to carry out his threats."
"He wouldn't dare!"
"If it were anything high-minded and dangerous, Dodge wouldn't dare,"
admitted Dick. "But minds like his will dare a good deal to put through
anything scoundrelly against people who try to be decent."

CHAPTER III
DICK & CO. AGAIN
"Hey, there, you galoot! You thin, long-drawn-out seven feet of tin
soldier!"
After having been home a week, Dick Prescott flushed as he wheeled
about to meet this jeering greeting.
In another instant every trace of his wrath had vanished.
"Tom Reade!" hailed Dick in great delight, turning and rushing at his
old High School chum. "And good little Harry Hazelton!"
It was, indeed, the young engineer pair, Reade and Hazelton, old-time
members of Dick & Co., the great High School crowd of Gridley.
Reade and Hazelton, after finishing at the High School, had gone out to
Colorado to serve under the engineer in charge of a great piece of
railway construction work. The adventures of Tom and Harry, in the
wild spots of the West, are fully set forth in the volumes of the Young
Engineers Series.

"The last fellow I expected to meet in Gridley!" cried Dick,
overflowing with delight as he stuck out both hands at once and
grasped theirs.
"Well, we are, aren't we?" demanded Reade.
"You are---what?"
"The last fellows you've met in Gridley. But where's Greg?"
"If he's out of bed," grinned Prescott, "he's in cit. clothes."
"Carrying a rifle and marching the lock-step---the route-step, I
mean---has dulled your brain," growled Tom Reade. "Is Greg in
Gridley?"
"What scoundrel is taking my name in vein?" demanded Holmes,
coming upon the trio.
Then there were hearty greetings, all over again. But in the end Reade
looked Greg over from head to foot.
"Do they make you sleep on a stretcher at West Point?" Tom wanted to
know. "Or what do they do, to pull a pair of galoots out to the length
that you two have attained."
"It's the physical training and the military drills," explained Prescott,
laughing. "But my! You fellows look like the Indian's head on a copper
cent!"
Tom and Harry were, indeed, highly bronzed by the hot southwestern
sun. Harry, in fact, was well on the way to being black, so burned had
he become by his last few months of work.
"I hope, if you fellows are ever allowed to