Dodge returned from hospital after a very short stay there. Word had spread through the camp. Though Dodge, who admitted frankly that his thrashing had been deserved, managed to keep a few friends, but was avoided by most of the yearlings. Since he had taken his medicine so frankly, he was not, however, "cut."
One afternoon, when Dick had been dozing on his mattress for about ten minutes, during a period of freedom from drill, the tent flap rustled, and Yearling Furlong looked in.
"What is it?" called Dick.
"Sorry if I've roused you, old ramrod," murmured the caller.
"That's all right, Milesy. Come in and rest yourself. You won't mind if I keep flat, will you?
"Not in training for sick report?" asked Furlong, glancing down solicitously. But he saw the glow of robust health glowing through the deep coat of tan on Prescott's face.
"My appetite doesn't resemble sick report," laughed Dick. "But, while you don't really look ill, Milesy, it's very plain that you have something serious on your mind. Out with it!
"I guess that will make me feel better," assented Furlong, with a sigh. "It's all that little plebe beast, Mr. Briggs."
"Surely he hasn't been hazing you?" inquired Prescott, opening his eyes very wide.
"No, no; not just that, old ramrod," replied Furlong. "But Mr. Briggs is proving a huge disappointment to me. I've done my best to make a meek and lowly cub of him, but he won't consent to fill his place. Now, that little beast made a good enough get away with his studies during the three months before camp. He mastered all the work of the soldier in ranks. At bottoms Mr. Briggs is really a very good little boy soldier. But he's so abominably and incurably fresh that he should have gone to Annapolis, where there's always some salt in the breeze.