Dick Prescotts First Year at West Point | Page 8

of the easiest and best-natured of

the cadet corporals. Brayton had his work to do-that was all. It was part
of his own training to learn how to whip an awkward squad into time in
the shortest possible order.
By-and-by all these anxious, even trembling, candidates were
instructed in the mystery of marching a few steps at command, how to
keep their alignment on the right guide, how to halt, the facings and all
that.
"Now, we'll pass on to learning to count fours, and how to march off in
column of fours," announced Brayton. "Squad halt!" he commanded
hoarsely, in disgust, ere the young men had taken four steps. "Listen to
me more attentively, and try more closely to follow orders !" glared the
young corporal.
After that it seemed as though Cadet Corporal Brayton could have no
other aim in life than to drive his squad of candidates away from West
Point. At almost every move through the drill he berated them
caustically, though in such faultless miltary language of reproof as to
keep him from censure.
"Dismissed," glared Brayton at last. "The candidates will go to their
rooms until summoned again."
Dick and Greg both felt stiff in the legs. Their backs ached from the
long-continued drilling in what was yet, to them, the rigor of
near-military carriage. Both chums toiled up the stairs to their bare
room.
"Ob, you brute!" muttered Greg, standing in the middle of the room and
shaking his fist in the direction of the area.
"Meaning-whom?" queried Prescott, with a wan smile.
"Whom could I mean but Brayton?" almost hissed young Holmes.
"Why does that fellow hate us all so?"
"I'll tell you a secret, if you want to hear it," proposed Dick

mysteriously.
"Please!"' begged Candidate Holmes.
"Then I don't believe he does hate us."
"'What?" gasped Greg incredulously.
"I don't believe he'd remember half our faces if he passed the members
of his squad in' the area right now," declared Dick.
"Then why does he persecute us so?" demanded Greg indignantly.
"I don't believe it is persecution," Dick continued.
"Then why, in the name of all that's kindly, does that fellow put us
under the heel of hateful usage? Why must we submit to the tyranny of
that cadet corporal?"
"It's the West Point way-that's all, I guess."
"Do you propose to submit to it?" challenged Greg.
"Yes," retorted Dick soberly. "I don't want to have to leave the
Academy and go home stamped a failure.'"
"Neither do I," admitted Candidate Holmes in a more moderate tone.
"But I wonder whether we have to stand so much nonsense from a petty
young official like a mere corporal?"
"I'm afraid we do," nodded Dick. "Now, see here, Greg, can't you make
a good guess as to why we're put through such a grilling?"
"I'll confess I can't see any human reason m it," declared Candidate
Holmes.
"Why, what did we come here to learn to be?"
"Soldiers."

"Are we soldiers yet!"
"Of course not," Greg admitted.
"Do you think these people at West Point have time to coax and
pamper us along!"
"Probably not. But can't they-or can't that fellow Brayton-be decent
with us?"
"Now, look right here," counseled Candidate, Prescott wisely. "We
want to be soldiers, but as yet we're only ignorant, unregenerate,
untaught young cubs. To the older cadets we must seem like pitiful
beasts."
"No, we don't,"' sneered Candidate Holmes. "We don't seem anything
at all. No cadet here, unless he's obliged to notice us, even looks at us.
We're less than nothing."
"That's true," nodded Dick thoughtfully. "And I'll wager it will be
pretty nearly as bad all the time we're plebes. Now brace up, Greg.
Remember what a small fraction of nothing you are, and be thankful for
the severe handling by Brayton, which may eventually transform us
into at least pretty fair imitations of soldiers."
Outside a drum was sounding. It was mess call, but neither candidate
knew it. Almost immediately, however, Brayton's rousing voice rang
up through the subdivision:
"Candidates turn out promptly!"
"There's our slave-driver once more," frowned Candidate Holmes.
Dick, as he raced down the stairs, remembered to button his coat down
its entire length. Greg forgot. As he darted through the door-way to the
porch overlooking the area he found Corporal Brayton's gaze fastened
upon him in severe displeasure.
"Mr. Holmes, button your coat, sir!"

Reddening and frowning, too, it must be admitted, Greg obeyed.
"All candidates will pass quickly through the north sally port and make
formation," continued the cadet corporal.
Here the entire uniformed cadet corps was forming, facing the plain. At
the extreme left of the line a cadet lieutenant, two sergeants and four
cadet corporals busied themselves with forming the candidates and
alternates in line. When the word was given the