It was not, in fact, until the corps reached West Point, and roll-call by companies was held, that the absence of Cadet Richard Prescott, second class, was discovered.
Then there was a good deal of curiosity among a few comrades, wild excitement and useless speculation.
An hour later, however, Greg's fevered imaginings were cut short by word that was brought over to him from the cadet guard house. Prescott had reported by wire. He had fallen from the rear car of the train into a river. The telegram merely stated that he had made his way to the nearest village, where a clergyman had provided him with the funds needed for his return to West Point. He would report at the earliest hour possible.
From room to room in cadet barracks flew the news.
"Now, how could a fellow be so careless as to fall off a moving train?" demanded Lewis.
"Old ramrod may have been shaken up a heap in the game," hinted Anstey. "Prescott isn't the sort of chap to tell us every time he feels a trifle dizzy or experiences a nervous twitch. He may have felt badly, may have gone out on the platform for a whiff of fresh air, and then may have felt so much worse that he fell."
"Depend upon one thing," put in Brayton decisively. "Whatever
Prescott does there's some kind of good reason for."
"It's enough, for to-night, declared Greg, to know that the royal old fellow is safe, anyway. To-morrow, well have the story, if there is any story worth having."
Turnback Haynes received the news with mingled emotions. His first sensation was one of relief at knowing that he was not actually a murderer—-one who had wickedly slain a fellow human being.
It was not long, though, before Haynes became seized with absolute fright over the thought that Prescott must have recognized him.