"Millionaire Hamilton's son," said the superintendent in a low voice, yet not so low but that Dick heard him.
"I wish they wouldn't refer to me that way," he thought. "I'd like to be myself once in a while—just Dick Hamilton. Money isn't what it's cracked up to be."
"Why, Hamilton, are you hurt?" asked Major Webster, as Dick guided his horse to the place where the animals would be unhitched. He looked at the red-stained handkerchief around the young millionaire's hand.
"Just a scratch," replied Dick bravely, though the pain of his crushed finger made him wince. "I caught it in the gun. It doesn't amount to anything."
He saw Dutton looking at him, and he fancied he detected a sneer on the cadet captain's face.
"Well, go to the surgeon, and have it dressed," said the major. "We don't want you to get blood poison. Is yours the only injury of the day?"
"I guess so," replied Dick, with an attempted laugh.
"A scratch!" exclaimed the surgeon, when Dick had so characterized the wound, as he came to have it dressed. "Well, I wouldn't want many scratches like that. Why the top of the finger is crushed. You shouldn't have kept on after you got this."
"I'd have to if we were fighting in earnest," was all Dick said, and he gritted his teeth hard to keep from screaming out when the surgeon dressed the wound.
Fortunately the remainder of the week was devoted to the more quieter forms of military life, the cadets spending considerable time in studying, drilling and reciting.