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There wasn't a murmur until eleven this morning, and I felt sure that was going to work off. But it won't, and, oh, my!" West Point's shortstop put his hands over his belt line, looking comically miserable. But to Captain Maitland there was no humor in the situation. "You're a fine one!" growled Maitland. "Oh, Holmesy! Come over here, please. You haven't been teasing your stomach, have you?"
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.
"Prescott, I guess you're our pitcher here-after" called Maitland hoarsely. "And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!" Dick Prescott found himself the center of a swift rush of cadets. Then he was hoisted aloft, and rushed off the field in triumph and glory, while the corps yell rang out for him. Over in the gym. Prescott was forced to hold an impromptu reception. Greg got much of the ovation.
There were now nine thousand people on the grandstands and along the sides. "Nine?" repeated Durville in the dressing room, when the word was brought to him. "Five thousand used to be about the usual crowd, I believe. Old ramrod, you and Holmesy are surely responsible for the other four thousand.
"I've been fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters, the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face for you with this crowd." "Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm.
A "striker," in the Army, is an enlisted man who is paid by an officer for doing servant's work in spare time. Hence, a striker is, in general, anyone engaged in menial service. "Come on, Holmesy," urged Anstey, rising. "We'll go out for a stroll. Striker, see to it that you have a flawless tent interior when we return."
But I'll look for both you and Holmesy at practice this afternoon," ended "Durry," hastening away. "Go to a diamond try-out?" asked Greg when Dick broached the subject. "Of course I will, and crazy over the chance. All that has held me back so far, old ramrod, was the fact that you hadn't been invited. But now that has all been changed."
As it happened, they came out near where Ted Teall stood guarding Hi's clothing. "Have you seen Dick?" was Darrin's hail. "Yes; he and Holmesy have run down the road to get some men. Here they come now with the men," Ted answered, pointing. Dick had had the good fortune to find help before going far.
"Well, it seems that Prescott, Holmes, Darrin and Dalzell were all members of the athletic squad in the same High School before they entered the service." "Darrin and Dalzell are going to make it possible for the Navy to wipe us up again this year, too," continued the other cadet plaintively. "I don't believe they would, if we could put in Mr. Prescott and Holmesy for this year."
"Now, you've spoiled it all!" cried Greg. "Say, Holmesy, old spectre!" hailed a laughing voice across the street. "Hullo!" Greg answered. "Haven't a cold, have you?" "No." "Don't feel that you're marked for pneumonia?" "What are you driving at Furlong?" Greg called back. "Come along over, if you can brave the storm!" called yearling Furlong. "You and the rest."
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