Dick sat down on his box. Greg did the same. Plebes are not allowed campstools in the summer encampment—probably on the theory that so much luxury would be certain to demoralize them.
"I'm going out for a wee bit stroll," drawled Anstey, after taking a look in the tiny soldier's mirror to see that his appearance was in apple-pie order.
"Don't make the mistake of forgetting, and calling on one of the new yearlings," cautioned Dick dryly.
"There's no trace of insanity in our family history," responded
Anstey gravely, as he stepped outside.
Dick and Greg found they had much to talk about in comparing notes of what each had learned about the nature of duties in the summer camp. They were still thus engaged when Anstey bounded back into the tent. The young Virginian looked as though he were having a tremendously hard time to keep himself from exploding.
"Oh, this is rich!" he chuckled.
"What is?" inquired Dick, looking up in some mystification.
"What do you suppose Dodge has gone and done, now?"
"Said a kind word about me?" smiled Prescott.
"I didn't say anything about miracles," drawled the Virginian. "No; poor old Dodge has drawn number three post for guard duty on the late tour to-night!"