"What?" asked Greg.
"It's bound to tickle you," declared the Virginian gravely.
Even at breakfast, in the cadet mess, Dick failed to get away from his tormentors. One of the yearlings, seated at a table not far from the one at which Prescott sat, called out to a classmate:
"Queer thing about that prisoner bagged on number three last night. Did you hear who the prisoner turned out to be?"
"No-o-o," drawled the other yearling, while a hundred pairs of eyes were turned on flame-faced Prescott.
"It was the class president of the beasts" (plebes).
"Kind of tough fate for the prisoner, though," railed another.
"What's that?"
"He's been sentenced to death. He is to be used as a target for the plebe squads in target practice."
"That isn't a sentence of death; it's a guarantee of safety."