ening the door and looking in
inquiringly.

"Haynes has gone, I see," murmured Cadet Holmes.

"Yes."

"To stay away?"

"I rather think so," nodded Cadet Prescott, without looking up from
the pages of his textbook.

"Then there'll be some show for a poor, hard-working goat," muttered
Greg, closing the door behind him and falling into his chair.

"The goat," at West Point, is one who is in the lowest section
or two of his class. Greg was not yet a "goat," this year, though
he lived in dread of becoming one.

Hearing a yell from the plain beyond, however, Holmes went over
to the window and looked out.

"Dick, old ramrod," exclaimed Cadet Holmes wistfully, "I wish
we stood well enough to be out on the football grill."

"So do I," muttered Dick. "But what's the with the goat section
overtaking us at double time?"

Greg sighed, then went back to his books.

For fifteen or twenty minutes both young men read on, trying to
fasten something of natural philosophy in their minds.

Now there came a quick knock, immediately after which the door
was flung open and Brayton marched in.

"See here, you coldfeet," began the captain of the Army eleven
sternly, "what do you two mean by staying in here and boning dry
facts?"

"Just to avoid being drowned in goat's milk," smiled Dick, turning
a page and looking up.

Brayton, regardless of these heroic efforts to study, threw one
leg across the corner of the study table.

"You two fellows came out, in the first work of the squad, and
did stunts that filled us all with hope," pursued Brayton severely.
"Then, suddenly, you failed to show up any more. And all this,
despite the fact that we have the poorest eleven the Army has
shown in six years."

"Only men well up in their academic work are allowed to play on
the eleven, replied Dick.

"You fellows are well enough up to make the team."

"But we're nervous about our studies," rejoined Prescott.

"Nervous about your studies!" cried Brayton sharply. "Yet not
a whit anxious for the honor of the Army that you hope to serve
in all your lives. Now, you fellows know, as well as any of us,
that we don't much mind being walked over by a crack college eleven.
But we want to beat the Navy, year in and year out. Why, fellows,
this year the Navy has one of the best elevens in its history.
All the signs are that the middies are going to walk roughshod
over us. And yet you two fellows, whom we need, are sulking in
quarters,