"He was the best shot in his company. He was a sharpshooter, and one of the finest. So if you can get track of a soldier, who is a good shot, that may be my son, Corporal Bill. Will you try?"
"I will, Captain, I'll do my best."
"God bless you," said the veteran fervently. "And now I'll leave you. I'd let you take this photograph, only it's—it's all I have to remember—my son by," and his voice choked.
"I don't believe I'll need that," answered Dick. "I'll speak to Major Webster, and see what I can do."
The old soldier, murmuring his thanks, left the house.
"Well," mused Dick, as he went to his room, "I'll soon be at Kentfield. It'll be lonesome, at first, I expect, but the cadets will soon arrive. And I'll try to find the captain's son.
"I wonder how I'll make out with the cadets? I don't see why I should have any trouble making friends, or becoming popular, no matter if I am a millionaire, and the son of one. Money ought not to make such a difference. Still, as dad says, I may find it a handicap."
He looked around the room where he had spent so many pleasant hours. It was an ideal boy's apartment, with everything the most exacting youth could desire.
"I think I'll make out all right," Dick mused on. "But if worst comes to worst, I have a plan up my sleeve which I think will work." His eyes sparkled, and it was evident that he had just thought of some scheme. "That ought to do it," he said, speaking half aloud. "If I can't win any other way, I'll try that."
"Well, Dick," remarked his father, the next morning, "I suppose you are all ready to go to Kentfield?"