Dick Prescotts First Year at West Point | Page 6

Geroldstone remained sulky, with an air of bravado; the other
three young men were so downcast that all their companions were
heartily sorry for them. The hospital orderly marched back to the
adjutant's office those who had been rejected, while another orderly
appeared and led those who had passed the surgeons to the cadet
barracks.
"This begins to look like the real thing," murmured Dick as they neared
the barracks.
Now this group were taken to the room of the cadet officer of the day,
Lieutenant Edwards. Beside the cadet lieutenant's desk stood Cadet
Corporal Brayton.
To the cadet officer of the day each of the candidates gave his name
and home address, which were entered in a book.
"Brayton, take Prescott and Holmes to room number -, will you?" asked
Mr. Edwards with-out looking up.
Dick and Greg followed their conductor out-side and into another
subdivision of barracks. Mr. Brayton kept on until he had reached the
top flight, where he threw open a door.
"Step in here, Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes," ordered the cadet corporal
stiffly. To the two new arrivals the corporal spoke as though he had
conceived an intense dislike for these two boys. Later, Dick and Greg
discovered that it was merely the way in which all candidates were
treated by the cadet officers.

"You'll draw your bedding and other things presently," said Brayton
coldly. "In the mean-time you will remain here until you are ordered
out. When you hear the order for candidates to turn out, obey without
an instant's delay."
With that the corporal was gone, leaving the chums to gaze
wonderingly about their new quarters.
Luxury? Not a bit of it. The room was severely plain. At one end was a
double alcove, separated by a wall. In each alcove stood a bare-looking
iron bedstead. There were two washbowls, two chairs and two desks
that looked as though they had served the needs of generations of
cadets. There was a window that looked out on the quadrangular area of
barracks.
"Well, we're actually here, anyway," breathed Dick, his eyes sparkling.
"We're living in cadet barracks, and we're halfway through the ordeal
of becoming new cadets at the wonderful old United States Military
Academy!"
CHAPTER II.
THE TYRANNY OP THE CADET CORPORAL
D IC K hung up his coat and hat, and Greg did the same, for the heat
was turned on and the room wholly comfortable as to temperature.
"I've heard," murmured Greg, "that fellows usually get most woefully
homesick at West Point."
"Then they've no business to come here," retorted Prescott, with spirit.
"Such tender ones won't make soldiers anyway."
"I suppose we shall be awfully looked down on at first," mused Greg
aloud.
"Well, we can stand it," laughed Dick. "If we can't, we can't endure lots
more of things that are ahead of us."

"Just now I could endure a good, filling meal," sighed Holmes
comically.
"Yes?" laughed Prescott. "Then just press the button and the waiter will
bring us the bill of fare. I understand that candidates are allowed to
have their meals served in rooms. Although I believe it's forbidden for
any candidate, or cadet, either, to eat his breakfast in bed."
"Quit your 'kidding,'" begged Greg.
"I don't know that the authorities will bother to feed us, anyway, until
we've passed and it's known that we are going to stay and be cadets,"
laughed young Prescott, feeling around his belt-line, for he, too, was
hungry.
"Candidates turn out promptly!" rang, from below, a voice full of
military command.
Greg was in the middle of a comforting yawn and stretch. He dallied to
finish it, but Dick, snatching down his overcoat and hat, was already
out on the landing and racing below, while behind him floated the
advice:
"Come on, Greg! Get a boost on!"
"Get along there, beasts," commanded a cadet corporal in the lower
hallway sternly. "This is no sleeping match!"
Out in the yard several candidates had already run. Some of these
young men at home, had been accustomed to being waited on by
mothers and sisters. Yet here, in the seemingly freezing and hostile air
of the Military Academy, these same young men were fast learning that
everything has to be done by one's self, and at steam-engine speed.
"Mr. Danvers, come with me, and I'll place you as right guide," called
Cadet Brayton with the air and tone of a budding military martinet.
Candidate Danvers followed meekly. Brayton looked at the lad's

stooping shoulders with frigid, utter disapproval.
"Mr. Danvers, take your hands out of your pockets, sir."
"All right," laughed Mr. Danvers, obeying, and trying to laugh
nonchalantly. "Anything to please."
"Don't address a superior officer, sir, unless he addresses you in a way
to make a reply necessary. And when you do