He was moving rapidly toward the bottom of the class.
Worse, he began to dream of his grudge by night.

In his dreams Haynes always reviewed his hopes of successful villainy, or else found himself trying to put through some new bit of profound rascality.
Always the turnback awoke from such dreams to find himself in a cold sweat.
"I'll hit the right scheme---the real chance---yet!" the plotter told himself, as he tossed restlessly at night, while his roommate, Cadet Pierson, slept soundly the sleep of the just and decent.
"Haynesy, what's the matter with you ?" demanded Pierson one morning, as he watched his roommate going toward the washstand.
"What do you mean ?" demanded Haynes, with the pallor of guilt on his face for a moment.
"Why, you always look so confoundedly ragged when you get up mornings.
You used to wake up looking fresh and rosy.

Now, you look like the ghost of an evil deed." "Huh!" growled Haynes, plunging his hands into the water.

"I'm all right." "I wish I could believe you!" muttered the puzzled Pierson under his breath.
"It's near time to get Prescott, if I'm going to," Haynes told himself a dozen times a day.
In fact, the matter preyed so constantly on his mind that the turnback walked through each day in a perpetual though subdued state of nervous fever.
The next night Pierson awoke with a start.

At first the cadet couldn't understand why he should feel so creepy.