Yet Greg asked no questions, for he felt that it would be safer not to do so. He had just barely told Prescott of the purpose of the coming class meeting, which the latter cadet had already guessed for himself, however.
"I suppose I'll have a few loyal friends at that meeting?" asked
Dick, with a sad smile.
"Just as many friends as ever," asserted Holmes stoutly.
"I'm mighty grateful for that," nodded Dick. "But what I seem to need is more friends than ever."
"We'll find them for you, if there's any way to do it," promised
Holmes, and there the talk dropped.
"If the class goes against me again, and harder than before, I'm certain I shall have to see Lieutenant Denton once more and tell him that I can't stand it any longer," Dick told himself.
The class meeting was to be held on a Monday evening. On the night of the Saturday before, when scores of cadets were over at Cullum Hall at a merry "hop," Prescott slipped out of barracks by himself in Greg's absence.
Almost unconsciously Prescott's steps turned in the direction of Trophy Point. In the darkness he stood before Battle Monument, on which are inscribed the names of the West Point graduates who have fallen in battles.
"Will my name ever be there, or have any chance to be there?" wondered Dick, a big lump rising in his throat.
A tear stood in either eye, but he brushed them aside as unworthy of a soldier. Was he ever going to be a soldier, he wondered.