"Reckon I'll have to go down awhile, anyhow. Harris, what Bucketts said was true, though he oughtn't to have said it. Willett has been playing late these last two nights, with Watts, principally, but Craney says he seemed oddly anxious to get Case into the game, and Case wouldn't play--wouldn't stay about the place while Willett was there--wouldn't have anything to do with him. Willett has lost quite a lot, I'm told, and now he's ordered off." Harris was still silent. He had no love for Willett, at best. He had had in their cadet days more reasons than one for his dislike. He had far more reason now, yet never dreamed of still another--that report to department head-quarters. But Willett was his classmate, and, outwardly, they were friends. Bentley and, in fact, all the officers at Almy were new-found acquaintances, well as some few were known to him by reputation. Still, it came to him something of a shock that Hal Willett should no sooner seem well enough to be about than he should turn directly from her good-night words--her kiss, perhaps--to the gambling table and its probable accompaniments. It boded ill for the happiness of that sweet girl's future, and as Harris sat brooding, Bentley, unheard, unnoted, slipped away, and presently, with brisk step and buoyant mien, Hal Willett himself came bounding in. Barely ten minutes ago Bucketts had given the impression that he seemed dejected, dispirited, yet Willett now was confidence and energy personified. "Hefty, old boy, how much cash have you got in hand? I want three hundred dollars." There was no answer for a moment. Well as Harris thought he knew Willett, this was a surprise. "What for?" were the exact words of the response, and neither in tone nor manner were there encouragement. "I've got to pull out at dawn, I suppose you've heard, and I shouldn't like to leave I.O.U.'s--here!" And now the cheery confidence seemed evaporating. Willett's face was shading. "Won't you sit down?" asked Harris reflectively. "I'd like to know something about--this." "There isn't time, Harris. I'm in a hole, so to speak. I hate to bother you, but I'd rather come to a classmate and old friend, who is in position, as I know, to help out, than give these fellows a chance to talk. Probably they've been talking already, and you've heard," and now, with something like a resumption of the old familiar manner of their boy days at the Point, Willett settled on the broad, flat arm of the reclining chair and threw his own arm, long and muscular, over the back. There had come to be a saying in the gray battalion, when Willett was seen strolling with a comrade, his arm caressingly encircling him, "Well, Willett's doing the bunco act again." Possibly it was the instinctive shrinking of the wounded shoulder; certain it was that Harris drew perceptibly away, and Willett noticed it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" said he. "It's rather touchy yet," was the answer.