"Mr. Briggs, your presence is desired at once at Mr. Furlong's tent."
"Yes, sir," replied the plebe meekly. He got up with an alacrity that he did not feel, but which was the result of the new soldierly habit. Mr. Briggs threw on his campaign hat and a raincoat, but, by the time he was outside of the tent, Holmes was just disappearing under canvas up the company street.
"I guess I'm in for it," muttered the plebe sheepishly, as he strode up the street. "Confound it, can a yearling see just as well when he's asleep as when he's awake?"
He halted before Furlong's tent, rapping on the pole.
"Mr. Briggs, sir."
"Come in, Mr. Briggs."
The plebe stepped into the tent, drawing himself up and standing at attention.
For some seconds none of the yearlings spoke. In fact, only Dick looked at the fourth classman.
"Mr. Briggs," demanded Prescott at last, "where is your bucket?"
"In my tent, sir."