They knew that Breslin had certainly allowed the belief that Mark Merrill was the thief, and he had offered no explanation then and there of his conduct. They received his lame explanation as that of a man who was drowning “catching at a straw.” They knew that Mark Merrill had reported himself as having struck a fellow cadet a blow, and that he had doubtless given his reason for so doing, which they adjudged a good one. What the commandant would think remained to be seen. The commandant’s orderly had been “seen in the land,” as they, the cadets, expressed it, and, as a result, certain uniformed gentlemen from the different classes were seen wending their way toward headquarters. Byrd Bascomb gave his version of the affair in the presence of several officers of the academy, but with no cadet present other than himself. The commandant’s secretary jotted down his testimony. Then followed Herbert Nazro’s statement, Dillingham’s, and so on until all had been heard, and no comment was made in the presence of the cadets, but the officers were left to discuss the case among themselves. In the meanwhile the door of Breslin’s room was closed against all admission, except the well-known knock of Scott Clemmons. That youth returned from making known his roommate’s “explanation” to find him seated at his study table, writing. Breslin was very pale and nervous, and Scott Clemmons wore a painfully anxious look, too. “Well?” said Breslin, as Clemmons entered. The latter threw himself into his chair and said: “It won’t go.” “You read it?” “Yes.” “What did they say?” “Nothing.” “That’s good.” “That’s bad, for their silence is worse than their chin music.” “Have you seen Merrill?” “He is in his room under orders.” “Well, what am I to do?” “Resign, I should say, and at once.” “I half thought of it, and, in fact, had written a letter to the commandant; but then----” “What?” “My father will not let me come home.” “Try your mother.” “It will do no good, for the old man runs the house.” “There is one thing certain.” “What is that?” “If you don’t resign, you’ll be dismissed.” “Oh, Lord!” “If you were not, the cadets would cut you dead, never speak to you except officially, for they have got a standard of honor here which only an angel could hope to attain to.” “You had better resign, then, too.” “Why?” “You are no angel.” “That’s rather good of you, Breslin; your trouble seems to have sharpened your wit.” “Well, if I resign you ought to do so too, or----” “Or what?” “I cannot go home.” “Try it.” “I will, but I know the old man.” “Well, if you do not, get work and redeem yourself in his opinion.” “I have no money, as you know, so if I go you must go, too, or----” “Or what, Breslin?” “Or support me,” and there was an ugly look came over the face of the disgraced cadet. “I do not understand,” faltered Scott Clemmons.