He was marching down the street with the firm, quick step that is second nature to a West Pointer; he passed the barracks without looking in and went on down to the hospital building; and there he turned and started to enter. The door opened just as he reached it, however, and another cadet came out. The officer sprang forward instantly and grasped him by the hand.
"Williams!" he cried. "Just the fellow I was coming to see. And what a beautiful object you are!"
Williams smiled a melancholy smile; he was beautiful and he knew it. His face was covered in spots with Greek crosses of court-plaster, and elsewhere by startling red lumps. And he walked with a shy, retiring gait that told of sundry other damages. Such were the remains of handsome "Billy," all-round athlete and favorite of his class, defeated hero.
Williams had waited scarcely long enough for this thought to flash over the young officer before he spoke again, this time with some anxiety.
"Tell me! Tell me about Mallory! I hear they're skinning him on demerits."
"Yes, they are," returned Fischer, "and they've soaked him twenty more this morning!"
"Twenty more! Then how many has he?"
"Eighty-five."
"What!" cried Williams. "You don't mean it! Why, he'll be out in a week. Say, Fischer, that's outrageous!"
"Perfectly outrageous!" vowed the officer.