Cadet Captain Fischer dropped the letter at this stage of it and lay back and laughed.
"Wicks Merritt's evidently forgotten I was on furlough once myself," he said. "He's telling me all about how it goes."
"What's he got to say?" inquired Williams, the speaker's tentmate, looking up from the gun he was cleaning.
"Oh, nothing much; only a lot of nonsense—jollying as usual. Wicks always is."
And then Fischer picked up the letter again, and went on.
The two were seated near the door of a tent in "Company A Street," at Camp McPherson. Fischer was lying in front of the tent "door," which was open to admit the morning breeze that swept across the parade ground. His friend sat over in an opposite corner and rubbed away.
There was silence of some minutes, broken only by the sound of the polishing and the rustling of Fischer's paper. And then the latter spoke again.
"Oh, say!" said he. "Here's something that'll interest you, Billy. Something about your friend Mallory."
"Fire away," said Williams.
"'By the way, when you answer this let me know something about my pet and protégé, future football captain of the West Point eleven. The last time I heard from where you are, Mark Mallory was raising Cain. I heard that he was a B. J. plebe for fair; that he'd set to work to make war on the yearlings, and had put them to rout in style; also, incidentally, that he was scheduled to fight Billy Williams, the yearling's pet athlete. Tell Billy I hope the plebe does him; tell him I say that if Mallory once whacks him on the head with that right arm of his he'll see more stars from the lick than the Lick telescope can show——'"