Dick Prescottss Fourth Year at West Point | Page 2

work done by the cadets.
Almost with the speed of magic the planks were laid in an orderly
manner forming a secure flooring over the balks.
The second boat was anchored, and then a third, a fourth. As the bridge
grew Cadet Prescott walked out on the flooring that he might be at the
best point for directing the efforts.
As the fifth boat reached its position, Dick turned to see that all was
going well.

The yearlings, whose duty it was to carry the balks---"balk-chasers,"
they were termed unofficially---were standing idle, though alert. They
could not move until Mr. Jordan, of the first class, gave the order.
And Jordan? With one hand hanging at his side, the other resting
against the small of his back, he stood gazing absently out over the
Hudson.
"Mr. Jordan!" called Dick, hastening back over the planking.
"Sir!" answered the surly cadet, facing him.
"Hurry up the balks, if you please, sir."
With a scowl, Jordan turned slowly toward the waiting yearlings.
"Lay hold!" commanded Jordan, and, though it was hard work, the
yearlings responded willingly. This was what they were here for, and
this hard work was all part of the training that was to fit them for
command after they were graduated.
"All possible speed, Mr. Jordan!" admonished Prescott, with a tinge of
impatience in his voice.
"Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder!" drawled Mr. Jordan, with tantalizing
slowness.
The yearling squad, each man feeling the cut of the sharp corners of the
heavy balk on his right shoulder, yet, bearing it patiently, awaited the
next command.
"Mr. Jordan, this is not a loafing contest," admonished Prescott in a low
voice.
"For---ward!" ordered Jordan with provoking deliberation.
The yearlings under him, made of vastly better material, sprang
forward with their balks, laying them in record time across the top of
the next pontoon. The lashers then fell upon their work of securing the

balks as though they loved labor.
"Chess!" called Dick, remaining on shore this time, and the yearlings
with the planks hastened forward, each carrying a plank. Here and there,
a lighter cadet staggered somewhat under the plank he was carrying,
yet hastened forward to finish his duty of the moment with military
speed.
Another pontoon was ready.
"Balks!" called Cadet Prescott. "Balks!"
Jordan got his squad started at last.
Dick glanced swiftly, but in wonder at Lieutenant Armstrong. That
Army officer, however, seemed industriously thinking about something
else.
"Jordan is truly taking charge of the balks!" muttered Prescott to
himself. "He is going to balk me so that I can't get the bridge
constructed before recall!"
"Running the balk chasers" is always unpopular work among the cadets.
Properly done, this work calls for a great deal of alertness, speed and
precision. It is work that takes every moment of the cadet's time and
attention, and incessant running in the hot sun. Yet Prescott had, before
this, chased the balk carriers, and had not objected. He had taken up
that task as he did all others, as part of the day's work, something to be
done speedily, well and uncomplainingly.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Jordan?" asked Dick in an undertone.
"Are you sick?"
"Sick of such emigrant's jobs as this!" growled Jordan. "What made
you give me-----"
"I can't discuss that with you," replied Cadet Dick Prescott coldly. "I
shall be compelled to make it an official matter, however, if you hinder

me any more."
"Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder! Forward!" Jordan ran with the squad.
"Halt! Lower!"
"I reckon Jordan means to keep really on the job now," murmured
Prescott to himself, and returned to the advancing end of the pontoon as
it crawled over the little arm of the Hudson.
Two more boats, however, and then Dick sprang sternly ashore.
"Mr. Anstey!" called Prescott, and Anstey, the sweet-tempered
Virginian, one of Dick's staunchest friends in the corps of cadets, came
quickly up, saluting.
"Mr. Anstey, you will chase the balk carriers," directed Dick. "Please
try to make up the time that has been lost. Mr. Jordan, you are relieved
from your duty, and will report yourself to the instructor for gross lack
of promptness in executing orders!"
There could be no mistaking the quality of the justly aroused temper
that lay behind Cadet Prescott's flashing blue eyes.
As for Cadet Jordan, that young man's face went instantly livid. He
clenched his fists, while the blackness of a storm was on his features.
"Mr. Prescott," he demanded, "do you realize what you are
saying---what you are doing?"
"You are relieved. You will report yourself to the instructor, sir!" Dick
cut in tersely.
Anstey was already chasing the yearling squad out with the balks, and
the young men were moving fast.
As for Dick Prescott, he did not favor Mr. Jordan with a further