"To the Ninety-ninth, best of 'em all," proposed Prescott, holding out his hand to Cartwright, who took and pressed it.
"To the best officers' crowd in the service," quoth Greg.
"Amen to that!" assented Cartwright, though he strode away with a dull red flush burning on either cheek.
Half an hour later Dick's business took him past the regiment's guard-house. As carpenters were everywhere busy in camp putting up more necessary buildings the place officially known as the guard-house was more of a bullpen. Posts had been driven deeply in the form of a rectangle, and on these barbed wire had been laid to a height of nine feet. Within the rectangle guard-house prisoners could take the air, retiring to either of two tents inside the enclosure whenever they wished.
As he passed Dick noted, vaguely, that four or five men stood by the nearer line of barbed wire fence. He held up his left hand to glance at his wrist watch. Just as he turned the hand, to let it fall at his side, something dropped out of the air, falling squarely in his hand. Instinctively Prescott's fingers closed over the missile. He glanced, quickly, at the enclosure, but not one of the men on the other side of the wire was looking his way.
Then the young captain, keeping briskly on his way, opened his hand to glance down at his unexpected catch. It was a piece of manila paper, wrapped around a stone.
Waiting only until he was some distance from the bull-pen, Dick unwrapped the paper.
In printed characters, used undoubtedly to disguise handwriting, was this message:
"Watch for all you're worth the carpenter who talks with Mock!"
"Now, why on earth should I interest myself in the affairs of Greg's busted sergeant?" Dick wondered. "And what possible interest can I have in any carpenter unless he's a friend of mine, or has business with me?"