"I'm glad I don't owe him anything, Dick."
"The same here. He'd get the last penny from you. I pity anyone who does owe him, if he can't pay. Here, Grit, you never mind that cat," for the bulldog, with a low growl and a raising of the hair on the ridge of his back, had shown an inclination to chase a cat that scuttled across the drive from the barrack stables where the troop horses of the military academy were kept.
"That must be a strange feline," remarked Paul. "Grit knows all the regulars."
"Guess you're right, Paul. There goes Beeby. Hi, Innis!" Dick called to a tall cadet, crossing the parade ground. "Want to come for a walk?"
"Can't—I've got some work to do."
"'Work was made for slaves,'" quoted Paul.
"Then I'm a slave," retorted Innis Beeby. "See you later," and he turned into his dormitory.
Paul and Dick kept on by themselves, meeting chums and acquaintances occasionally, until they were well away from the military academy, swinging along a country road at a good pace—heads up, shoulders back and with a true military carriage, attained only after long practice.
"Which way?" asked Paul, as they came to a place where the road branched off, one highway leading to Lake Wagatook, and the other to a small town about two miles away.
"Let's go in to Westville. I want to see about getting a new collar for Grit. No, I didn't call you," he said to the bulldog, who came back on hearing his name.