Dick Prescotts First Year at West Point | Page 2

Gridley High School. The same readers will remember how Greg Holmes secured his own nomination from Senator Frayne. This was all related in the closing volume of the High School Series, "THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM."
Our former readers will also recall that Dave Darrin and Dan Daizell "ran away" with the nominations for cadetships at Annapolis, while Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, the last of famous Dick & Co., went West seeking their careers as young engineers.
To be a cadet at West Point, and then to blossom out as an officer in the Regular Army-this had long been Dick's fondest hope. Greg, too, had caught the Army fever, and now suffered from it as severely as Dick Prescott himself.
And now, at what seemed like the critical moment, this tedious waiting was almost maddening.
Before Mr. Ward's desk stood a lonely looking young man, red faced and fidgeting as though he were going through a fearful ordeal.
"What on earth can they be doing to that fellow?" wondered Greg, in a barely audible undertone. "That fine-looking old gentleman can't be hazing a cadet?"
"No; but I wonder what the ordeal is," Dick whispered back. "I haven't seen a fellow look. comfortable through it yet."
"Mr. Prescott!"
Dick started to his feet so suddenly that his right almost tripped over his left.
One of the other candidates near by tittered. That caused Dick's face to turn redder than ever.
Mr. Ward, however, looked up at the boy with a kindly smile.
"State your full name, Mr. Prescott."
Dick did so.
"When and where born? Give date and place."
By this time Dick was beginning to find his voice. The excess of color began to recede from his face. He. had already, almost unconsciously, passed over the sealed envelope which he had received from the adjutant in a room on the same floor at headquarters.
Prescott was quickly breathing at his ease. He discovered that the entire ordeal consisted of giving his family history, with dates.
Then he stepped back. Another name was called.
"Don't let that rattle you a bit, Greg," whispered Dick, when he had dropped back into his seat beside his chum. "Mr. Ward doesn't do anything but take your pedigree."
"Mr. Holmes!"
Greg got up with nearly all of his self-possession about him. He was just returning to sit by his chum when the nattiest, sprucest- looking soldier imaginable, wearing the olive-drab fatigue uniform of the Army and overcoat to match, stepped into the room.
"The surgeons have directed me to bring down all the candidates who are through here," the orderly announced. "Follow me to the sidewalk, where you will fall in loosely, by twos, and follow me to the cadet hospital."
Among those of the candidates who had finshed giving their pedigrees there was a rush that would put a spectator in mind almost of a football scrimmage. It represented merely the feverish anxiety of these young men to get through with the next stage in their awe-filled day.
"There are some marching down with us who won't be marching with us to the next place, I am afraid," whispered Holmes.
"I imagine so," whispered Dick, with a nod.
"Say," murmured Greg, his cheek suddenly blanching, "just how much chest expansion do the surgeons demand in the case of a fellow standing five-seven in his stocking feet?"
There was a note almost of panic in Greg's voice.
"Cheer up, Greg!" urged Dick, whose own lace was again flushing. "You've got chest expansion enough for a heavy-weight prize fighter."
"You must have the same, then. Is that so?" demanded Holmes. "What makes your face so red?"
"Just wondering," admitted Prescott, in a low voice, "whether I ever contracted any symptoms of football-player's heart."
"Bosh!" muttered Greg. "I never heard of any such disease."
"I never did either," Dick fidgeted. "But in the hour I've been at West Point I've concluded that people here know a heap of things that aren't even guessed at in the outside world."
"O-o-o-h! Say! Look!" murmured Greg in deep awe and admiring wonder. "They must be cadets!"
Eight, young men in gray, marshaled by a section marcher, went swinging up the road with a marching rhythm so. perfect that it was like music.
Each of these young men was clad in flawless gray, with black stripes and facings. Each young man wore his cadet fatigue cap at an exact angle. The long, caped gray overcoats looked as though they had been melted to the forms of their wearers.
No wonder Greg Holmes gave that involuntary gasp. He was having his first view of a small squad of real cadets.
Some of the candidates on the other sidewalk so far forgot themselves as to halt and all but stare at the natty young marching men opposite.
Then, all in an instant, the section marcher and his section had gone by.
"Don't anyone halt, please," cautioned the soldier orderly. "Keep your places in the line, young gentlemen,