An hour later, however, Greg's fevered imaginings were cut short
by word that was brought over to him from the cadet guard house.
Prescott had reported by wire. He had fallen from the rear
car of the train into a river. The telegram merely stated that
he had made his way to the nearest village, where a clergyman
had provided him with the funds needed for his return to West
Point. He would report at the earliest hour possible.
From room to room in cadet barracks flew the news.
"Now, how could a fellow be so careless as to fall off a moving
train?" demanded Lewis.
"Old ramrod may have been shaken up a heap in the game," hinted
Anstey. "Prescott isn't the sort of chap to tell us every time
he feels a trifle dizzy or experiences a nervous twitch. He may
have felt badly, may have gone out on the platform for a whiff
of fresh air, and then may have felt so much worse that he fell."
"Depend upon one thing," put in Brayton decisively. "Whatever
Prescott does there's some kind of good reason for."
"It's enough, for to-night, declared Greg, to know that the royal
old fellow is safe, anyway. To-morrow, well have the story, if
there is any story worth having."
Turnback Haynes received the news with mingled emotions.
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