that he did not feel, but which was the result of the new soldierly
habit. Mr. Briggs threw on his campaign hat and a raincoat, but,
by the time he was outside of the tent, Holmes was just disappearing
under canvas up the company street.

"I guess I'm in for it," muttered the plebe sheepishly, as he
strode up the street. "Confound it, can a yearling see just as well
when he's asleep as when he's awake?"

He halted before Furlong's tent, rapping on the pole.

"Mr. Briggs, sir."

"Come in, Mr. Briggs."

The plebe stepped into the tent, drawing himself up and standing
at attention.

For some seconds none of the yearlings spoke. In fact, only Dick
looked at the fourth classman.

"Mr. Briggs," demanded Prescott at last, "where is your bucket?"

"In my tent, sir."

"You will fill it, and report back here with it at once."

"Very good, sir."

"Now, what on earth is coming?" quaked the plebe, as he possessed