Dick Prescottss Fourth Year at West Point | Page 2

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 glance or word, but walked with swift step back to the task of which he was in charge.
With face flushed, Mr. Jordan walked over to the instructor, reporting himself as directed.
"Dismissed from to-day's instruction," said the Army officer briefly. "Wait and return with the detachment, however."
So Cadet Jordan, first class, saluted, turned on his heel, sought the nearest shady spot and sat down to wait.
His body idle, the young man had plenty of time to think---about Cadet Captain Dick Prescott.
"There's nothing to