One evening in early September, Dick and Greg were both busy at study table, when Dick chanced to look over some papers connected with his studies. As he did so, he drew out an officially backed sheet, and started.
"Jupiter!" he muttered. "I should have turned this in before supper formation."
"Who gets the report?" asked Greg, looking up.
"It goes to the officer in charge," Dick answered.
"Oh, well, he's up yet. You can slip over to his office with it," replied Greg easily.
"And I'll do it at once. It may mean a demerit or two, for lack of punctuality, but I'm glad it's no worse."
Jumping up and donning his fatigue cap, Prescott thrust the neglected official report into the breast of his uniform blouse, soldier fashion.
Then he walked slowly out, halting just inside the subdivision door.
"I don't mind a few demerits, but I don't like to be accused of unsoldierly neglect," mused the young cadet captain. "Let me see if I can think up a way of presenting my statement so that the O.C. won't scorch me."
As Dick stood there in the gloom, a quick, soft step sounded outside. Then the door was carefully opened, and a young man in citizen's dress entered.