"This confounded Prescott has escaped me, so far, though his last experience was a narrow squeak. I've had two tries—-and, by the great blazes! the third time is said never to fail. He's in such bad shape now that it won't take much of a push to put him over the edge of physical condition. But how can I do it?"
So much thought did the turnback give to this problem that he fell further and further behind in general review. He was moving rapidly toward the bottom of the class.
Worse, he began to dream of his grudge by night. In his dreams Haynes always reviewed his hopes of successful villainy, or else found himself trying to put through some new bit of profound rascality. Always the turnback awoke from such dreams to find himself in a cold sweat.
"I'll hit the right scheme—-the real chance—-yet!" the plotter told himself, as he tossed restlessly at night, while his roommate, Cadet Pierson, slept soundly the sleep of the just and decent.
"Haynesy, what's the matter with you?" demanded Pierson one morning, as he watched his roommate going toward the washstand.
"What do you mean?" demanded Haynes, with the pallor of guilt on his face for a moment.
"Why, you always look so confoundedly ragged when you get up mornings. You used to wake up looking fresh and rosy. Now, you look like the ghost of an evil deed."
"Huh!" growled Haynes, plunging his hands into the water. "I'm all right."
"I wish I could believe you!" muttered the puzzled Pierson under his breath.
"It's near time to get Prescott, if I'm going to," Haynes told himself a dozen times a day.