"I'm glad you see that, old Gridley!" murmured Cadet Dick heartily. "Now, Greg, you won't write another letter of resignation, will you?"
"Not if I die of homesickness and melancholy!" muttered Greg, clenching his hands.
"Now, after letting you in for an awful verbal flogging," smiled Dick curiously, "I'll let you into a secret. I wrote a letter of resignation, too."
"When?" gasped Cadet Holmes amazed.
"Two days ago," confessed Dick. "I read it through six times before sending it to the superintendent."
"You didn't—send it to the superintendent?" gasped Greg.
"No; because I also tore it to fine bits before sending it to headquarters—and so the letter never reached the one to whom it was addressed," laughed Cadet Prescott. "Now, look here, Greg. Admit that you were a prize simpleton, just as I was. Let's start anew—with a bang-up motto. This is it: 'A Gridley boy may die, but resign—never!'"
Dick struck such a dramatic attitude that both poor young plebes began to laugh heartily.
"Oh, and now for the news that brought me back here hotfoot," ran on Prescott glibly. "Greg, you never could guess who's here at West Point."
"The President, or the Chief of the General Staff?" asked Holmes slowly.