"Well, isn't three a good enough number?" asked Greg innocently.
"A good post, you meandering old puddin'-head!" retorted Anstey.
"Good? The post that goes by old Fort Clinton?"
"Well, it is a bit lonely, off there in the woods," admitted Cadet
Prescott.
"Lonely?" bubbled over Anstey. "And you've seen the ditch that runs along by that post?"
"Naturally," nodded Dick. "You will probably remember that I got past the eye-sight tests of the rainmakers" (doctors).
"Now, I've just been talking with a young cit. fellow, who's visiting one of the officers on post," continued Anstey. "He tells me that, every year, some of the yearlings slyly waylay a plebe whenever they can catch him pacing on number three post late at night."
"What do they do to him?" questioned Prescott.
"Oh, they don't do a thing to him, I reckon," drawled the Virginian. "At least, nothing that a jovial fellow can object to. They may roll him down in the ditch, take his gun away from him, and hide it, or some little thing like that."
"Then, see here," proposed Dick solemnly, "Dodge may not be the most popular fellow in the corps, but he's one of us, anyway. He belongs to our class. Anything that is done against him is, in a measure, done to the whole class. Anstey, we ought to get Dodge aside and warn him."
"Warn him?" repeated Anstey aghast. "Warn him—and spoil all the fun!"