Only a moment did Mr. Edwards need for the reading of Greg's note. Then the cadet lieutenant frowned at Dick.
"Mr. Prescott, what do you mean by perpetrating a poor-spirited joke under the guise of making an official communication?"
In an instant Dick saw clearly that be had made a military mistake.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said meekly.
"This may all be a joke to you, Mr. Prescott," went on the cadet officer dryly, "but I presume it is none whatever to Mr. Holmes."
As he hadn't been addressed, Greg did not venture to answer. He stood rigidly at attention, though both he and Dick were flushing.
The paper that Mr. Edwards now held in his hand read as follows:
"To THE SUPERINTENDENT,"
"Sir: I have the honor herewith to tender my resignation as a cadet in the United States Military Academy, the same to take effect immediately. I have the honor to be, sir,"
"Very respectfully,"
"So that's the way you feel about it, is it, Mr. Holmes?" questioned the cadet lieutenant, after a second glance at the paper.
"Yes, sir," replied Greg.
"This is the fourth letter of the kind that I've seen this week," continued Mr. Edwards stiffly, though a curious smile played about the corners of his mouth. "I presume that two or three dozen, at least, of the same sort have been written by the new plebes. Mr. Holmes, do you know what was done with the other letters of resignation that I saw?"
"No, sir."
"Their writers tore them up," went on the cadet lieutenant stiffly. "Now, Mr. Holmes, if you persist in believing that you want to send this letter in to the superintendent, then I think it will be the best thing you can do; for if you still persist in wanting to resign, then you haven't manhood enough, anyway, to make a fit brother-in-arms for the comrades in your class."
This was severely said. Greg paled under the verbal thrashing.
"If you really wish to send in this letter," continued Mr. Edwards, "you have a perfect right to do it, Mr. Holmes."
"May I speak, sir?" asked Greg when the cadet lieutenant ceased talking, but remained looking fixedly at the new plebe.
"Proceed," replied Mr. Edwards.
"May I have that letter, sir?"
The cadet lieutenant handed it back without a word.
"May I—may I—"
"Out with it, Mr. Holmes."
"May I handle this letter at once in the way that I now wish, sir?"
"You may."
Greg, his face again flushing painfully, tore the sheet into small bits, turning and tossing them into his waste basket. Then he again wheeled, standing at attention.
"Stand at ease, mister," ordered Mr. Edwards, dropping out of his official tone and manner. "Now, mister, will it do you any good if I explain a few little things about life here at West Point?"
"I shall be very glad, indeed, sir, if you will be good enough," replied Greg rather shamefacedly.
"In the first place, mister," went on the cadet lieutenant, sitting, now, with one leg thrown over the corner of Greg's desk, "the homesickness that has hit you touches every other man who comes here. It's a mighty hard-working life here, and I'll admit, mister, that it's very cheerless during the plebe year.
"You think you are looked down upon, and regarded as being beneath contempt, mister. That sort of treatment for a plebe is believed to be necessary here. Grant got it; so did Sherman; so did Sheridan. George Washington would have been treated in just the same manner had there been a West Point for him to go to.
"It isn't because of what we upper class men think of you. It's because of what we're waiting to find out. I don't know anything about your connections in your home town. You may have been a great fellow there. You may, for all I know, have had a home of wealth, luxury and refinement. Your father may be a man of great importance in the nation. I don't know anything about that, and I don't care about it, either, mister. From the moment you start in at West Point, you start your life all over again, and you stand on nothing but your own merits. We don't know how much merit you have, and we shan't know until you've gone through with your plebe year and have proved whether you're a man or not. If we find, a year from this coming summer, that you're a man, we'll welcome you into the heartiest comradeship of all the corps. Mister, I've said a lot more to you than most upper class men would waste the time to say. Choose your own course, and prove where you stand."
Then Cadet Lieutenant Edwards turned around to Cadet Prescott with a look that made that Gridley boy feel rather uncomfortable.
"As for you, mister, never again, while you're a plebe, be so b.j. (fresh) as to try a joke with an upper class man. If there's one thing, mister, that gets a plebe into three times as much trouble as any other thing, then it's b.j.-ety!" (freshness).
Of a sudden the cadet lieutenant returned to his feet, resuming all the dignified demeanor of the cadet officer on duty.
Instantly Dick and Greg stood once more at "attention" until Mr.Edwards had turned on his heel and left the room.
"Hm!" murmured Dick, as they heard the lieutenant's retreating footsteps. "We've both had a jolly good lesson."
"You didn't do much," muttered Greg shamefacedly. "I wouldn't feel so bad about a call down over a bit of ordinary b.j.-ety. I was scorched and withered for being a cold-foot and a quitter—and I deserve it all, and more!"
"I'm glad you see that, old Gridley!" murmured Cadet Dick heartily. "Now, Greg, you won't write another letter of resignation, will you?"
"Not if I die of homesickness and melancholy!" muttered Greg, clenching his hands.
"Now, after letting you in for an awful verbal flogging," smiled Dick curiously, "I'll let you into a secret. I wrote a letter of resignation, too."
"When?" gasped Cadet Holmes amazed.
"Two days ago," confessed Dick. "I read it through six times before sending it to the superintendent."
"You didn't—send it to the superintendent?" gasped Greg.
"No; because I also tore it to fine bits before sending it to headquarters—and so the letter never reached the one to whom it was addressed," laughed Cadet Prescott. "Now, look here, Greg. Admit that you were a prize simpleton, just as I was. Let's start anew—with a bang-up motto. This is it: 'A Gridley boy may die, but resign—never!'"
Dick struck such a dramatic attitude that both poor young plebes began to laugh heartily.
"Oh, and now for the news that brought me back here hotfoot," ran on Prescott glibly. "Greg, you never could guess who's here at West Point."
"The President, or the Chief of the General Staff?" asked Holmes slowly.
"Oh, pshaw, no! They don't either one amount to as much as the fellow I'm talking about thinks he amounts to."
"Whom did our Senators appoint to the Academy?" asked Prescott after a pause.
"Me," admitted Greg, again turning red.
"Well, whom did the other Senator appoint!"
"A fellow named Spooner, who came here and 'fessed out' cold (failed badly) on the academic exam," Greg responded.
"Who was Spooner's alternate!" persisted Dick.
"I don't believe I remember," Greg replied slowly.
"No; and that was because neither you nor I ever knew. Spooner's alternate was—Bert Dodge!"
"What? Bert Dodge, of Gridley?" demanded Cadet Holmes astonished.
"That very chap," Prescott admitted. "When Spooner went home, after 'fessing out' here, Bert Dodge, who hadn't appeared, was ordered by wire to report at once, or have his name stricken out. Bert's physician wired the War Department that the young fellow was ill, though the illness would not delay him more than a few days. So Bert was given a brief grace. Well, sir, I've just learned that Dodge reported at the adjutant's office this morning. He got by the surgeons bounding, and to-morrow he sits down at his 'writs.' (written examinations) in the Academic Building."
"I wonder if that fellow will pass," cried Greg wonderingly.
"Oh, I rather think he'll make it easily," replied Dick, seating himself at his own desk. "Bert wasn't a fool at his studies. He spent more than three years at Gridley High School, and since then has had a school year and a half at one of the finest prep. schools in the country. Oh, I guess he'll get through all right."
"So we've got to have him here for a comrade!" sighed Greg disgustedly, as he picked up his text-book on English.
Both cadets had studied for ten minutes perhaps, when a knock sounded at their door.
The very unusualness of this caused both youngsters to look around, then at each other.
Had it been any cadet officer making an inspection—as was likely to happen at any minute of the waking day—he would have come straight into the room. And any other cadet, after knocking, would have followed this by opening the door and stepping inside.
Rap-rap! sounded again.
"Oh, come in," called Dick.
The door opened. Bert Dodge, dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion, looked inside.
"May I come in?" he called, in what was meant for a cordial, friend-from-home voice.
"Oh, yes, come in," sighed Dick wearily.
"That's not quite the welcome I might have expected from you two," muttered Bert, as he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Fellows, you're at West Point now," proceeded Bert Dodge pompously, "and this is a place where social points count tremendously, as I guess you've found out by this time. Now, you two may be all right, and I guess you are," admitted Bert condescendingly, "but you're just the sons of commoners, while my father is a wealthy man, a banker and a leader in society. So I guess you can quickly understand that I'm going to cut a good deal wider swath here than you two fellows put together."
Greg Holmes, who had been following Dodge with a gradually widening grin of amazement, now burst into a hearty laugh.
"Well, what's so awfully funny!" demanded Bert.
"You—you—social swell!" exploded Greg hilariously. "Oh—wow!"
"Oh, enjoy yourself in your own way," retorted Bert in decided anger, "but you'll soon find out."
Then looking about the room, he remarked, going on a new tack:
"I must say, you fellows are rather badly provided for showing the social courtesies here. You haven't even a chair for a guest."
"Plebes are allowed only two chairs to a room," remarked Dick, rising and pulling forward his own chair. "Take mine. I'll sit on the corner of my table."
"There's just one chair in my room," continued Bert, as he seated himself. "That's one reason I want to see the janitor, or steward, or whoever the fellow is. I'm going to tell him to put in a decent allowance of chairs."
Greg Holmes went off into another fit of laughter.
"Janitor? Steward?" sputtered Holmes. "Whew! That's great!"
"There are no such servants here, Dodge," Dick explained. "In fact, every cadet has to learn to wait on himself in nearly everything. A plebe, too, has to learn to be content with whatever he has given him. If he even makes any talk about it he is called b.j. A cadet who is found guilty of b.j.-ety has to put in all his spare time learning to walk on one ear."
"Do you mean to say you've been made to swallow stuff like that?" demanded Dodge, looking at Prescott in tall disdain. "Oh, well, you may be inclined to submit to such treatment, but I know who I am, and I'm not going to stand for any nonsense here. What's the matter with you, Holmes? Are you ill?"
For Greg's face, in his efforts to stifle his mirth, had become violently purple.
"I don't suppose you'll take advice, Dodge," continued Dick. "If I thought you only could do it I'd advise you to walk mighty slowly here, keep your lips together and not say a word until you've learned a lot."
Dick had risen and was standing, unconsciously, in an attitude that showed off, in his natty cadet uniform, all the strength and grace of his fine and now well set-up young figure. But Bert, with a desire to put this other fellow "back where he belonged," remarked casually:
"Prescott, I don't just like the fit of your coat. Who's your tailor? I want to get a different one. I'm going in for some of the swellest-fitting uniforms that any tailor around here can turn out."
Greg, who had managed to breathe naturally for the last minute, now struggled with another of his purple-faced paroxysms.
"I didn't think to ask who my tailor was," Prescott replied quickly. "In fact, I don't think I would have been told if I had asked. You see, every cadet here has to take just what clothes are issued to him at the cadet store. That's the rule for all cadets here."
"Do you mean to tell me that I've got to wear 'hand-me-downs'?" demanded Bert Dodge angrily. "Save that sort of stuff for fellows who'll believe it."
It was plain that, if Bert Dodge had dropped in with any intention of being neighborly and from-home, he had rapidly forgotten his plan.
Neither Dick nor Greg had any reason for being fond of the fellow, even if he had once been a schoolmate at Gridley High School. Bert, son of Theodore Dodge, a Gridley banker, was an unpardonable snob. Readers of the High School Boys Series will recall how Bert had been one of the leaders in the "sorehead" secession from the football ranks at Gridley High School. That movement failing in its purpose, Bert had afterwards provoked Dick Prescott into striking him, and had then had Dick arrested for assault. The suit had failed, and Bert was rebuked by the court. Much more of the feud that young Dodge had attempted to wage upon Prescott and his High School chums was fully narrated in "THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END."
It was nearly a year since Bert had seen either of these chums. That he had entered their room in cadet barracks full of the purpose of impressing them with his new importance was at once plain.
Dick was just beginning to find the atmosphere oppressive when the door was pushed quickly open after the faintest suggestion of a knock.
The newcomers were Cadets Pratt and Judson of the yearling class, known already among the plebes as two of the worst hazers.
"Attention!" hissed Pratt, as he strode into the room.
Neither of the visitors being a cadet officer, Dick and Greg were not obliged to stand at attention.
However, neither new plebe was foolish enough to argue the matter. Dick and Greg took the pose ordered and at once.
"Mister," demanded Pratt, turning upon Dick, "what is this cit. (citizen) doing in barracks?"
"Mr. Dodge is a candidate, sir, quartered in this building, and he took it into his head to visit us."
"What are you doing on that chair, Candy?" demanded Judson, flashing an angry look at Bert.
"None of your business!" retorted Dodge.
"You'll stand at attention!" retorted Cadet Judson, gripping Bert by the collar and pulling him to his feet.
"That'll be about enough, Jud," warned Cadet Pratt in a low voice."Remember, the fellow is nothing but a candidate."
"You fellows seem to think you're mighty important," sputteredBert. "I'm not in the habit of associating with hoodlums!"
"Now, if that isn't the b.j.-est sunflower that ever grew in a farmyard," remarked Cadet Pratt, with a wink at Cadet Judson.
"If you're referring to me be a bit more careful in your witticisms," warned Dodge stiffly, "or I shall demand satisfaction."
"Oh, you're rather certain to get all the sat. you want, I imagine when you're a cadet," retorted Cadet Pratt dryly. "But, Jud, our time is fairly running away from us, and we have yet other social calls to make. Our respectful farewells, misters."
Turning, straight and stiff as ramrods, Cadets Pratt and Judson marched from the room.
When their step was heard on the stairway Greg stepped over and closed the door.
"Well, you fellows are the meekest green apples that I ever saw," laughed Dodge scornfully. "You simply lay down and allowed those two military bullies to walk over you just as they chose. Do you expect to get through West Point like men, if you have no more self-pride than that?"
"I'm heartily glad you've joined us here, Dodge," murmured Greg artlessly. "You'll show us, by your own example, just how to stand up for our rights."
"Humph! I hope you'll be able to learn," grunted Bert, rising as he glanced at his watch.
Then he went on, a trace more amiably:
"I find I've got to go back to my room and prepare for supper. Now, fellows, we haven't always gotten along in the best shape at home. But here at West Point I suppose we all start life on somewhat of a new footing. I'm willing to let by-gones be by-gones if you don't presume altogether too much on coming from the same home town. Keep your places with me, and we'll try to go along on a somewhat pleasanter basis than in the past. Let us try to forget the past. Ta-ta, fellows. See you at the supper table."
Bert stalked out loftily, with a considerable appreciation of his condescension toward two fellows whom he had been wont, in past years, to call muckers.
"Hold me!" begged Greg hoarsely. "I'm going to have a fit. Oh, wow! Dick, just think of that poor b.j. lamb falling into the hands of the yearlings! What'll they ever do with him?"
"Greg, it has been hard enough on us to get used to the new ways at West Point. But we'll never mind anything during the rest of our plebedom. No matter what happens to us we'll just remember how much more is bound to happen to pompous old Dodge."
Dick returned to his table, picking up his text-book on French. Greg honestly tried to study, but every other minute he simply had to stop to laugh at the thought of Bert and his pompous ways.
Finally, when he could restrain himself no longer, Greg broke forth:
"Dick, old ramrod, no matter what happens to me, now I can stand it by thinking of Bert Dodge being here!"
"I hope he doesn't start his old tactics of making trouble," mutteredCadet Prescott.
"If he does, he'll have most of the trouble in his own possession," grinned Greg. "West Point is a place where manliness has the only real show."
"Yes, but a sneak can make an awful lot of trouble," sighed Dick. "Not that I mean to call Dodge a sneak, though. I am in hopes that he'll prove anything but that. From the minute that a fellow enters the Military Academy he starts in life all over again. So, remember, Greg, we won't be prepared to hate or distrust Dodge, and we'll lose a hand before we'll utter a word against him, based on anything that happened in the past."
"That's the square deal, and the West Point ideal," nodded Greg, who was rapidly forgetting the letter, the fragments of which were now in his waste basket. "Who knows but that, in this new atmosphere, Bert Dodge may turn out to be a man? West Point will do that very thing for him, if any new surroundings can."
As the battalion marched to supper that night Bert Dodge felt in his heart that hazing must already have started for him; for, being the only candidate left at West Point, and having no uniform as yet, Dodge was compelled to march, in his rather gay "cit." attire, at the extreme end of the battalion line.
Bert did not march quite alone, however.
Just behind him, majestic, unbending, lynx-eyed and exacting, marched Cadet Corporal Spurlock, who was known as the "worst" (strictest) of the Yearling cadet officers.
"Chest out, Mr. Dodge! Don't wobble so at the knees, sir! Can't you carry yourself straight? Take your chin away from your chest, Mr. Dodge. Try to keep step, sir. Follow my count—hep! hep! hep! hep! Mr. Dodge, you're out of step! When I call 'hep' put your left foot down, sir! But don't keep it down, sir!" added the exasperated cadet corporal in a furious undertone, as Bert came to a dead halt. "Mr. Dodge, try to exhibit something close to intelligence. Now, again, sir! Hep! hep! hep! hep!"
An Army officer stationed at the post drove by on a springboard. Three young women were with him. They saw and partly understood. The peal of laughter that floated back from them brought a flush to the face of the green, pestered candidate.
Under the hard grilling of cadet corporal Spurlock, Bert Dodge actually made a lot of progress within the next few days.
Dodge learned that, whenever addressing an officer, whether that officer were a cadet officer, or one of the Regular Army officers stationed at the Academy as instructors, he must add "sir" to every communication. He also learned that he must not address any superior officer unless first addressed by him.
Bert also picked up rapidly the knowledge that he was no better than anyone else, and of not a thousandth part of the importance of any upper class man.
Much of this the young man picked up from his new roommate, Tom Anstey, a soft-eyed, soft-voiced, helpful and sunny young man from Virginia. Anstey was one of the best-liked men in his class, but the new plebes at first held almost aloof from Dodge.
"Whatever you do," urged Anstey, "don't make the mistake of trying to cultivate the acquaintance of any of the upper class men."
"I've encountered two already," muttered Bert.
"Oh!" and Anstey smiled wonderingly.
"Pratt and Judson, of the yearlings," Dodge continued, then related what had happened in the room of Cadets Prescott and Holmes.
"I guess you're going to be in for it, presently, Dodge," nodded Cadet Anstey. "Mr. Pratt and Mr. Judson are known as two terrors."
"They don't want to try to pass any of their terror on to me," growled Bert.
Whereupon Mr. Anstey took his roommate in hand, gently and genially, and tried to make that new cadet—for Bert had passed his academic exams. without even a hint of trouble—understand how worse than foolish it would be to attempt to antagonize the upper class men.
"You come from the same place that Prescott and Holmes do, don't you?" asked Anstey, one afternoon, as the roommates rested from study.
"I'm glad to say I don't," replied Bert, almost brusquely.
"Oh!" nodded Anstey.
"I suppose we've got to be comrades, now, but I don't like that pair an over-lot," Bert explained.
"Odd! Most of the new plebes like Prescott and Holmes all the way up, and then all the way down again," murmured Anstey seriously. "For myself, I don't know any two fellows in the new lot that I like better."
"Oh, I guess they're all right in a good many ways," admitted Bert slowly. "Only we never managed to hitch—that's all. You asked me if I came from the same place. I used to live in Gridley, but I—er—well, I went away to Fordham to another school. My father had a summer place in Fordham, and he took up his voting residence in Fordham, though spending a good part of his winters in Gridley. That's how I'm credited to Fordham, not Gridley."
"Thank you for telling me," nodded Anstey. "I had just been wondering if it were not crowding things a bit to send three young men all from Gridley."
"I'm not only not from Gridley, but I came in as an alternate, anyway."
"How are you getting on with Corporal Spurlock?" asked Anstey.
"That fellow? Oh, hang him! Spurlock drives me wild. I came within a hair's breadth of applying to the commandant of cadets for a new instructor in drill. Only you told me that no heed would be paid to such a request from a new plebe."
"I should rather say not," grinned Anstey. "However, you'll be through the prelim. grind soon, and then you'll be admitted to a company in the battalion."
"I'm fitted for it now," growled Bert.
"You won't get into a company, though, until Corporal Spurlock reports you as fitted."
"That fellow is the most rascally tyrant I ever saw anywhere," growled Bert, picking up a text-book on mathematics.
By this time the season of outdoor drills and daily dress parade had arrived. This particular afternoon, however, in the latter part of March, a heavy, blinding snowstorm had come along. Cadets were nearly all in barracks, therefore, and those who had the most need were studying hard.
"I've boned math., boned French, boned English," muttered Anstey, at last. "Now, I think I'll go over and bone Prescott and Holmes. Feel like going along with me!"
Bert frowned somewhat. He didn't care to "approve" of the twoGridley boys too much. But it was so deadly dull in this room thatDodge didn't care to be left alone, either.
"Oh, I'll go," nodded Dodge, closing a book with a snap and rising. "But I'd like it even better if you had some one else in mind to visit."
"You see," almost apologized Anstey, "I want to see Prescott and Holmes particularly because I've been talking over football with them, and they've been telling me a lot about their high school eleven that was right smart and interesting."
Bert said no more. If his ancient foes were going to tell Anstey about the old football days back in Gridley, then Bert feared they might be tempted to tell a lot that would bring up his unpopular share in those spirited old days.
"But Prescott and his shadow won't dare to say anything against me if I'm sitting right there in the room," muttered Bert to himself.
So he and Anstey presented themselves at Dick and Greg's door.Bert was almost amazed to find himself pleasantly greeted, butDick and Greg were true to their decision to bury the hatchet of thepast if possible.
It was nearly time to light the gas. In the fading light Anstey walked over to a window, watching the snow swirl down into the area outside. At West Point the snowstorms are famous for their severity.
"Hang it!" growled Anstey. "I don't suppose you can ever make aVirginian like myself grow to like this beastly winter weather. AndI miss the drills and dress parade. Don't you?"
"Yes," nodded Dick. "I miss everything of an outdoor nature, when it is withheld from me."
"Oh, if you're missing outdoors just now, you might go out and keep on, within cadet limits, until you've tramped five miles," grinned the cadet from Virginia.
"If some of the upper class men found that we liked to be out in a snowstorm, I'm afraid they'd make us stand on our heads in a drift," laughed Cadet Holmes.
"Speaking of that," continued Anstey, wheeling about, "have any of you fellows run into real hazing as yet?"
"Not I," replied Prescott, with a shake of his head.
"Nor I," added Greg.
"It's a shame that we should be expected to put up with any such nonsense," growled Cadet Dodge belligerently. "Who are the yearlings that they should feel at liberty to rub our noses in the mud! We plebes ought to combine to put a stop to this outrage. Now, I'd like to see any smart year—"
"Eh!" called a voice, cheerily, as the door was thrust open.Yearling cadets Pratt and Judson stepped into the room.
Instantly three of the plebes present rose and stood at attention.Bert Dodge didn't.
"What has got into your sense of military manners, mister!" demanded Cadet Pratt, transfixing Bert with a haughty stare.
"What's wrong with my manners!" demanded Cadet Dodge.
"What's that!" cried Pratt.
"What's wrong with my manners!" repeated Dodge, though a bit more tractably.
"What?"
"What is wrong with my manners, sir!" Bert amended.
"That's just a shade better, mister," admitted Yearling Pratt. "But you are too sparing of your 'sirs,' mister. Now, answer me again, and use 'sir' after each word."
Plebe Dodge gulped hard, but Pratt and Judson were glaring at him. So he began:
"What, sir, is, sir, wrong, sir, with, sir, my, sir, manners, sir!"
"Mister, why didn't you stand at attention when we entered the room!"
"Because you're not—"
"What!" exploded Yearling Judson.
"Because, sir, you're, sir, not, sir, my, sir, superior, sir, officers, sir."
"Are we yearlings!"
"Yes, sir."
"And what are you!" demanded Cadet Judson, with infinite contempt.
"Only, sir, a, sir, plebe, sir."
"Mangy, unkempt, uncouth and offensive, are you not!"
Bert flared and swallowed hard, but he responded, very meekly:
"Yes, Sir."
"You're—what?"
"A, sir, mangy, sir, unkempt, sir, uncouth, sir, and, sir, offensive, sir, plebe, sir."
"Very true," nodded Mr. Pratt. "But, at least, mister, you have learned how to answer a yearling or any other superior, haven't you!"
"Yes, sir," Bert meekly assented.
"But there's one thing the poor beast doesn't know how to do yet," observed Mr. Judson, turning to his classmate. "He doesn't understand how to stand at attention when he is honored by a yearling's visit."
"Teach him—if you find that he's intelligent enough," advisedYearling Pratt.
"Turn down that mattress, mister," commanded Mr. Judson, pointing to Dick Prescott's iron cot.
Bert made the mistake of looking first at Cadet Prescott for permission.
"Now, mister, what makes you hesitate!" fumed Mr. Judson.
"It isn't my cot, sir," replied Dodge.
"What?"
"It, sir, is, sir, not, sir, my, sir, cot, sir."
"That has nothing to do with your orders. Turn down that mattress!"
Bert obeyed with great alacrity.
"Now, then, mister," ordered Yearling Judson, "get up on that mattress, and stand at attention upside down!"
It took Bert Dodge a few precious seconds to understand the full nature of the ignominious thing he had to do.
This was neither more nor less than to stand on his head on the mattress. He could rest his hands beside his head, at the outset, bracing his feet against the wall. So far it was not difficult. But—
"Don't you know the position of attention, mister!" demanded Cadet Pratt, with feigned anger. "Your hands should hang naturally at your sides, the little finger touching the seam of the trousers."
Now, in this inverted position the hands "hung" anything but "naturally" at the sides. In fact, Bert had to hold his hands up in the air in order to have the little fingers touch the seams of the trousers.
Standing on his head, in this fashion, without support, was something that taxed all of Mr. Dodge's athletic powers. He had to try over again, more than a half a dozen times, ere he achieved a decent performance of this gymnastic feat.
"Now, let us see how good a soldier you are, mister," commandedYearling Pratt, turning around upon Plebe Anstey.
Anstey's cheeks were just a bit pale, from suppressed anger, but he speedily mastered this novel way of standing at attention, and did it to the satisfaction of the hazers.
Then Dick and Greg did it, and rather better than either of their predecessors. The old gym. and field work of training for the Gridley High School teams had hardened their muscles in a way that stood them in good stead now.
"Brace, mister!" commanded Yearling Judson, focusing his gaze on smarting Bert Dodge.
Bert knew what that meant, from hearsay, and didn't pretend that he didn't. This time he took the position of attention on his feet, and then exaggerated the position by throwing his head and shoulders as far back as he could, standing rigidly in this latter position.
It isn't much of a thing to do, as far as taking the attitude goes. It is the length of time a plebe is kept at a "brace" that makes it count as an effective form of hazing. "Bracing" is generations old at West Point. The theory of upper class men has always been that bracing, long continued, fastens the principles of erect carriage upon a plebe, and teaches him, more quickly than anything else could, how to hold himself and to walk.
Dick, Greg and Anstey were likewise soon straining themselves in the "brace" attitude. And mighty funny these four hapless plebes looked as they stood thus, wondering when the hazers would let up on them. But Yearlings Pratt and Judson looked on grimly, warning any plebe as often as the offender showed a disposition to lessen the severity of his "brace."
How everyone of the four ached can be determined by the reader if he will take the full position of the brace, and hold it steadily for ten or fifteen minutes by a friend's watch.
Dodge began to wobble at last. Anstey was sticking it out pluckily, but knew his endurance must soon give out. Dick and Greg felt their back muscles and nerves throbbing. Yet neither Judson nor Pratt showed any intention of giving the command to stop.
Suddenly a quick step was heard in the hallway outside.
Anyone who has been at the Military Academy as long as had Pratt and Judson knew the meaning of that particular, swift step.
One of the "tacs.," as the tactical officers are called, was making an unscheduled tour of inspection. For an upper class man to be caught hazing, or for a plebe to be caught submitting, was equally dangerous to either yearling or plebe! It might mean dismissal.
Had Dick's been the first door opened six cadets would have been instantly in serious trouble.
Fortunately the door across the corridor was the first to be opened, and the six on this side of the hallway heard another cadet's voice call quietly:
"Attention!"
It was, therefore, a tactical officer making an inspection.
At the United States Military Academy the superintendent, who has the local rank of colonel, is at the head of this government institution in all its departments.
Discipline, however, and training in tactics, comes within the especial province of another officer, known as the commandant of cadets, who ranks locally as a lieutenant-colonel, and who gets in closer touch with the cadet corps.
Under the commandant of cadets are several other Army officers, captains and lieutenants, who take upon themselves the numerous duties of which the commandant has oversight. These subordinate officers in the tactical department are known as tactical officers. The cadets call them "tac.s."
Each day one of these "tac.s" is in charge at the office of the commandant, which is in cadet headquarter's building, on the south side of the area of cadet barracks.
This officer, who is in charge for a full period of twenty-four hours, when his turn comes, is officially designated as the "officer in charge." Among the cadets he is privately referred to as the "O.C." In a similar way, in cadet parlance, the commandant himself is known as the "K.C."
Now, one of the numerous duties of the O.C., who is an Army officer and himself a graduate of West Point, is to make sudden, unexpected tours of inspection whenever the fancy—or the suspicion—seizes him.
Such an inspection need by no means extend through the whole of cadet barracks. It may, for that matter, be only to one subdivision, or even to a single floor or room of one subdivision. Yet record must be kept of such inspections, and of any offenses against discipline that may be discovered by such a flying visit.
A scrap of paper on the floor, a match end on a study table, any article of furniture or clothing out of its proper place, or any undress or untidiness on the part of a cadet, constitutes a breach of discipline, and must be reported and atoned for. Naturally, a case of hazing would be a most serious "delinquency," as breaches of discipline are termed.
Just what Captain Vesey, O.C., on this day, expected to discover through the present flying inspection will never be known. If he had tried Dick's door first. [Transcriber's note: missing text?]
But he didn't.
However, there was no chance whatever for Yearlings Pratt and Judson to retreat unseen. The door across the hall had been left open, and the tac. would be sure to detect their sudden departure.
Dick Prescott's first movement was to pounce upon his disordered bedding, swiftly folding over the mattress, and laying the bed clothing in the prescribed manner.
Then he tiptoed up to the dismayed Judson, whispering in that yearling's ear as he knowingly winked at Pratt:
"If I'm not too abominably b.j., sir, won't you please come to my table and help me bone math?"
It looked like a saving inspiration. As Dick slipped into his chair he signed to Bert Dodge to stand at one end of the table. Judson snatched up one of Dick's mathematical textbooks, opening to one of the first pages at random. Dick turned sideways in his chair, glancing up at the yearling with a rapt expression.
Yearling Pratt slipped into Greg's chair. Holmes and Anstey stood on either side of him. Pratt began rapidly to sketch out a problem that he chanced to remember from plebe year math.
Almost instantly the door swung open. Not one of the cadets happened to be looking in that direction. As Captain Vesey, the tac., white-gloved, stepped into the room he was just in time to hear Cadet Judson say:
"Perhaps if you were to work out a formula in algebra, mister, you would find the idea even more clear. But I think you understand it now."
"Yes, sir, thank you," replied Cadet Prescott.
"This is the way I would explain the problem," murmured Mr. Pratt, to Greg and Anstey. Just at that instant the yearling looked as though butter couldn't melt in his mouth.
Turning a bit, Pratt caught sight of the tac., who stood looking on as though transformed with wonder.
"Attention!" called Pratt at once.
All the others wheeled, Dick rising in order to do so. Six young men who looked intensely earnest over study, faced the O.C. respectfully.
Doubtless a bit taken back, certainly so if he had expected to find anything wrong, Captain Vesey took two steps into the room, glanced about him, then wheeled and walked out.
"I must be going now," uttered Yearling Judson a moment later."Call on me again, once in a while, if you need any help in math."
"Thank you very much, sir," murmured Cadet Prescott respectfully.
"Coming along now, Pratt?" called Judson.
"Yes; I must be getting back to my own bone," replied YearlingPratt.
It would have been out of the question for yearlings to thank plebes for a service such as had just been rendered. So the late hazers merely stepped from the room.
"Odd! Mighty queer!" muttered Captain Vesey to himself, as he unhooked his sword and stood it in a corner over in the O.C.'s office. "Mr. Judson and Mr. Pratt have a pretty bad reputation for hazing. And yet, when I come upon them, it is to find them helping the poor young greenhorns through the mazes of math. I wonder if that was a put-up job on me."
"Well you are a silly ninny, Prescott!" uttered Cadet Dodge disgustedly.
"Meaning—what?" asked Dick coolly.
"Those yearlings were just about caught redhanded."
"Yes."
"And you had to go to work and arrange amateur dramatics like a flash. So when the tac. pops in here, he finds those most estimable young ruffians conducting an innocent day school here!"
"Well?" demanded Prescott.
"Why didn't you leave it for that yearling couple to pull their own chestnuts out of the fire?"
"Because," replied Dick quietly, "I'm not going to be the means, if I can help it of having any man kicked out of this corps when he's as anxious to be a soldier as I am!"
"You're a ninny, just the same!" Bert decided.
"And you're a hopeless minority here, Dodge, so come along back to our room," broke in Anstey. "We've some boning of our own to do before the call sounds for supper formation."
Before the battalion of cadets marched to supper, through the heavy storm that night, the news of Dick Prescott's inspiration had traveled pretty firmly through the yearling class.
It is against all West Point traditions to make a hero of a plebe. Not a word of congratulation came to Cadet Prescott. It wouldn't even save the young man from being the victim of a lot of hazing pranks, for these inflictions were deemed necessary to the plebe's training. None the less, the incident, as it became known, caused the impression to spread that Cadet Prescott was a good fellow and that he was likely to prove a credit to the grand old United States Military Academy.
Hazing a thing of the past at West Point! The War Department and the authorities at the Military Academy have done all they could, and will continue to do all in their power to stamp out hazing.
Since the Congressional investigation in the early years of the present century, much has been done to cut down the rigor of hazing at West Point. General Mills stamped out much of it with iron vigor. Colonel Scott dealt many hard blows to the system. Other officers have bent their energies to the same problems. The way of the hazer is perilous nowadays. In a word, of late years hazing has been at a very low level at the United States Military Academy.
It is, however, a practical impossibility to stamp out hazing wholly in an institution where hazing has been one of the most cherished traditions through many generations of cadets.
The hazing of today is milder; there is less of it, and, with rare exceptions, it is less brutal. Yet hazing, in one form or another, will doubtless continue at West Point through the twentieth century as it did through the nineteenth.
The form of hazing has changed, if not the spirit. Sorely pressed by tac.s, and by other officers stationed at West Point, the yearlings, or second-year men, who do most of the hazing, have developed new forms of the ancient sport, and some of these forms may be carried on in actual sight of an Army officer without exciting his suspicions.
Where possible, some of the old-style forms of more innocent and purely mischievous hazing are retained. Where "necessary" new hazes are employed that are bound to tax the best efforts of disciplinary or other officers to detect.
Hazing is one of the diversions of men of mature age on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Even in the United States Senate there are recognized ways of hazing a new Senator who displays too little reverence for the traditions of that august body.
Then why hope to abolish hazing utterly at West Point?
As May drew on towards June there was, among the yearlings, a noticeable falling off of interest in hazing. Every second-year man in the corps found himself much more interested in his standing in his studies than formerly.
Several of the yearlings had reason to feel acutely concerned over their standing in academic work. That some of them would be "found" and dropped from the corps on account of their deficiencies was almost a foregone conclusion.
So the warm nights of May found anxious young men in all the classes boning up to within a few minutes of the sound of taps.
Least anxious of all the cadets were the scores of new plebes. They had been required to report in March mainly that they might acquire the proper West Point habits of study and recitation before going into the summer encampment. Hence these new plebes were not to be treated very searchingly in the academic work.
One afternoon Greg, who had felt half ailing for twenty-four hours, went on sick report and walked to the hospital to consult the medical officer in charge.
Captain Goodwin looked Greg over and ordered him to remain at hospital that night for observation and treatment, declaring that the young plebe would doubtless be all right by morning.
Cadet Prescott was alone in their room, boning hard, at about nine that evening, when a member of the cadet guard informed him that he was wanted by the O.C. It was only to make an explanation of something trivial that had occurred that afternoon.
As Dick rose, placing his desk in order, he decided to turn off the gas during his absence. This he did, then left the room.
Crossing the area he climbed the stairs to the office of the O.C.Pausing at the threshold, he saluted, then was bidden to enter.
Dick's report was quickly made. He was then permitted to return to quarters.
As Cadet Prescott threw open his door the room was in darkness, hardly any light entering from the hallway.
As Dick stepped into the room he was startled to see a dimly defined figure bending over his cot.
In the poor light it seemed to Prescott that the intruder wore the attire of a "cit."
Now, no civilian had any right in the room, nor in cadet barracks, for that matter. Prescott's first swift conclusion was that some scoundrel was there for wholly improper purposes.
"You rascal, I've got you!" exclaimed the plebe, crossing the room almost in a single bound.
Swift as a flash Dick laid hands on the intruder, dragged him back from the cot, wheeled him around and let drive a blow from the shoulder that caught the prowler on the nose and sent him to the floor.
"Let up, you b.j. plebe!" came a roar of smothered rage.
The body had fallen nearer the door, where the light from outside was stronger.
Dick noted, with a thrill of dismay, that the other was attired not in "cit." dress, but in the cadet gray.
"Hold on a minute," begged Prescott.
Striking a match he turned on the gas. As the light flamed up Dick saw Cadet Corporal Spurlock standing before him, quivering with rage.
"You b.j. plebe!" snarled Mr. Spurlock. "I'll take this out of you!"
"Certainly," replied Dick promptly. "But, first of all, I want to assure you that I didn't see the uniform. I thought I had discovered a cit. in here, and I knew no cit. could be here on any honest business."
"Bosh!" growled Spurlock, who was holding a handkerchief to a nose that was bleeding freely.
Cadet Prescott drew himself up, his eyes flashing.
"Pardon me, sir," returned Dick. "But you know, as well as I, sir, that a lie is impossible to a cadet."
It was a hard report to get around that a cadet had told a lie. At times cadets have been known to lie, but invariably, after detection, they have been "cut" and forced out of the corps. So lying is a rare occurrence, indeed, among the cadets.
"I'll make you settle for this, anyway," sputtered Cadet CorporalSpurlock.
"Very good, sir," Dick answered resolutely.
"You'll settle at once, too, mister, or as soon as I've stopped this flow."
"Very good, sir," Dick answered again. "But if I'm not too b.j., sir, in talking at all, I'll call your attention to that clock. There is just time for you to reach your quarters before taps sound."
Spurlock glanced hastily at the clock.
"You're right, mister," he admitted. "Then you may wait until you hear from me, mister."
With that Spurlock walked quickly from the room.
Dick examined his cot and found that Spurlock had been engaged in the humorous trick of placing some two score exploded caps from target-rifle ammunition under his under sheet.
"He wanted me to jump into bed and go down plump on all those caps, and then squirm there until after taps inspection," grinned Prescott as he swiftly removed the stuff. "It would have been a tough one, too—but now I guess I have a tougher proposition on my hands."
Prescott sighed a trifle as he hastily undressed, placing his clothing according to the regulations on the subject.
Just as he had finished taps sounded on the drum outside. Dick turned off his gas, bounded into bed and lay there as the door opened and the bull's-eye lantern of the subdivision inspector flashed into the room.
"All right here, sir, or accounted for," Dick remarked to the inspector, who hastily closed the door and hurried along on his rounds.
True to the medical officer's promise Greg was discharged from hospital the following morning, and permitted to report back to full duty.
"What's this I hear, Dick, old ramrod?" Greg demanded as soon as the chums were back in quarters from breakfast. "The news is flying around fast that Mr. Spurlock is going to call you out."
"I expect that he is," Dick admitted ruefully, and then told his chum all the details of the occurrence of the night before.
"Why, that doesn't strike me as fair excuse for a fight," Greg muttered. "You explained and apologized."
"Mr. Spurlock wouldn't accept any apology."
"Just the same," argued Greg, "I don't believe you have to fight, in this case. You can refuse, anyway, until the matter has been examined into by the scrap committee of the yearling class. Now, in view of the fact that you offered explanation and apology, I don't believe that the yearling scrap committee can hold you to any meeting with Mr. Spurlock this time. Let me handle this affair for you, old ramrod."
"Greg," rejoined Dick, laying an affectionate hand on his roommate's shoulder, "as long as I'm a new plebe I don't intend to try to dig out of any fight that an upper class man demands from me. Perhaps I could get the scrap committee to turn down Mr. Spurlock's desire—but I don't mean to do anything of the sort. I did all that I felt I could do consistently to stop the fight. Now it has got to come off, or else it will be because Mr. Spurlock has become more reasonable."
"He'll eat you up, that big fellow," mused Greg bitterly. "Mr. Spurlock is at least fifteen pounds heavier than you. He has had a year more of West Point gym work than you've had and he has the reputation of being pretty nearly the yearling champion in the ring."
"Of course I shall be thrashed," admitted Dick doggedly. "However, that probably won't do me any permanent harm. Besides, Greg, it's certain that I'll have to fight some yearling sooner or later, so I may as well take the dose now. Every plebe, I reckon, has to have one fight, anyway, with a yearling. It's a part of the system here, from all I can hear."
Rap-tap sounded at the door.
"Come in," called Dick, but the door opened just as he was calling.Mr. Kramer, of the yearling class, stepped inside.
"Mr. Spurlock requests me to inform Mr. Prescott that he demands a fight, at as early a moment as possible."
"My compliments to Mr. Spurlock, and I will meet him—here in barracks, to-night, I hope. Mr. Holmes has consented to act as one of my seconds."
"Very good, sir," nodded Yearling Kramer stiffly. "Mr. Holmes, will you step out and discuss the matter with me now?"
"Yes, sir," responded Greg. He was gone ten minutes. When he returned Greg announced:
"There's an extra room on the top floor of the next subdivision. The fight will take place there at nine to-night. Mr. Anstey has agreed to help look after your interests."
"All right, and thank you, old fellow," nodded Dick, as he turned to pick up a book.
Greg gulped and quivered behind his chum's back.
"He doesn't seem excited, but I know that I am," muttered Cadet Holmes. "The dear old fellow won't lose anything through nervousness, anyway."
Dick went through his studies and recitations as usual that day. If the stiff ordeal of the coming night carried any twinges for him, it wasn't noticeable in his demeanor. Yet Dick knew that the news had gotten thoroughly about among the cadets. He saw many of the new plebes gazing at him wonderingly.
When they returned from supper that night and reached their room, Greg was manifestly nervous—nervous enough for the pair of them, in fact.
"Dick, do you—do you expect to win?" asked Greg at last.
"Against a man like Mr. Spurlock?" smiled Cadet Prescott, and turned back to his study.
At a little after half past eight Mr. Anstey knocked on the door and came in.
"How's your form, Prescott, old ramrod?" the Virginian demanded.
"Fine, I hope," replied Dick laconically.
Greg heaved an inward sigh.
"Poor old Dick," he told himself. "I hate to see him hammered black and blue in a bare-knuckles fight like this one!"