"I'll git one o' them ole cadets," he chuckled, "some one the ole man'll believe. I know!"
At the eastern side of the camp, in A Company Street, and facing the sentry post of Number Three, stood a single spacious tent. It belonged to the first cadet captain, Fischer by name. And at that tent, trembling with impatience, the plebe halted and knocked.
"Come in," called a voice, and Texas entered.
There was but one occupant in the tent—the first captain has a tent to himself, if you please. It was Fischer, tall and stately and handsome as usual, with his magnificent uniform and sash and chevrons. He was engaged in writing a letter at the moment; he looked up and then arose to his feet, a look of surprise upon his face as he recognized the plebe.
"Mr. Powers," said he.
Texas bowed; and then he started right in to business.
"Mr. Fischer," he began, "I know it ain't customary for plebes to visit first classmen, and especially B. J. plebes. But I got something to say right naow that's important, more important than ceremonies an' such. Will you listen?"
The officer bowed courteously, though he still looked surprised.
"It's about Mr. Mallory," said Texas. "I reckon you've heard the stories 'bout him?"
"I have heard rumors," said the other. "I shall be glad to hear more."