x, had, in the yearling class,
acquired the reputation of being a good deal of a "spoonoid."
This is the term applied to a cadet who displays a decided liking
for feminine company.

"I can see that it isn't any use to ask you anything now," went
on Anstey.

"It isn't," Greg returned promptly. "I'm never secretive against
you, Anstey, old man and the only reason I don't talk at once
is that I don't know just what I want to say. But remember---8.15.
By that time I think I shall have solved myself into a highly
talkative goat yearling."

Rap-tap! at the door, and Furlong and Dunstan dropped in.

"Want to tell you what I think about your pitching, old ramrod,"
announced Furlong.

"It's rotten!" glowed Dunstan cheerfully "And your shortstop work,
Holmesy-----"

"What kindergarten nine did you play with last?" insisted Furlong.

"I was just making up my mind not to pitch again this season,"
grinned Cadet Prescott.

"Why not?" Furlong demanded.

"Milesy," laughed Dick, "you should never go out on a kidding
expedition until you're sure you're josh-proof yourself. Do you
think anything less than the coaches and the team captain could
stop me from pitching? But I sorry for Ken, if I'm to supplant
him."

"You needn't be. Kennedy is glad. He hopes to make the cavalry,
and he says he wants to train that wrist for wielding a sabre."

"Can you two near-plebes find time to drop in this evening, at
just 8.15?" demanded Greg.

"Certain idea! What's up, Holmesy?"

"It isn't a feed," declared Greg. "But I think you'd be sorry
afterwards if you failed to come."

"We'll be here," promised Dunstan.

"Then I guess our party will be complete," mumbled the mysterious
Greg.

"Say, Holmesy," nudged Dunstan, "how did you get that smear on
the back of your hand? Do you know, it looks like the famous
one that Cadet Dodge rubbed off with a borrowed handkerchief,
once on a time."

"Does it?" asked Greg innocently. "Be good enough to loan me
your handkerchief, then?"

"Not much!" growled Dunstan, backing away. "The loaning of personal
linen seems on its way to becoming a court-martial offence."

When the visitors had left, Dick turned on his chum, demanding
curiously:

"What's the game for tonight, anyway, Greg?"

"You didn't see how I got this smear on my hand, did you, old
ramrod?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going to tell you at present," replied Greg, going
to his washbowl and pouring in water. "But the way I