Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point / Or, Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life

Leaving the road that wound by the officers' quarters at the north end, turning on to the road that passed the hotel, a hot, somewhat tired and rather dusty column of cadets swung along towards their tents in the distance.

The column was under arms, as though the cadets had been engaged in target practice or out on a reconnaissance.

The young men wore russet shoes, gray trousers and leggings, gray flannel shirts and soft campaign hats.

Their appearance was not that of soldiers on parade, but of the grim toilers and fighters who serve in the field.

Their work that morning had, in fact, been strictly in line with labor, for the young men, under Captain McAneny, had been engaged in the study of field fortifications. To be more exact, the young men had been digging military trenches--yes--digging them, for at West Point hard labor is not beneath the cadet's dignity.

Just as they swung off the road past the officers' quarters the young men, marching in route step, fell quickly into step at the command of the cadet officer at the head of the line.

Now they marched along at no greater speed, but with better swing and rhythm. They were, in fact, perfect soldiers--the best to be found on earth.

Past the hotel they moved, and out along the road that leads by the summer encampment. The brisk command of "halt" rang out. Immediately afterwards the command was dismissed. Carrying their rifles at ease, the young men stepped briskly through different company streets to their tents.

Three of these brought up together at one of the tents.

"Home, Sweet Home," hummed Greg Holmes, as he stepped into his tent.

"Thank goodness for the luxury of a little rest," muttered Dick

Prescott.

"Rest?" repeated Tom Anstey, with a look of amazement. "What time have you, now, for a rest?"

"I can spare the time to stretch and yawn," laughed Dick. "If

I am capable of swift work, after that, I may indulge in two yawns."

"Look out, or you'll get skinned for being late at dinner formation," warned Greg.

There was, in truth, no time for fooling. These cadets, and their comrades, had reached camp just on the dot of time. But now they had precious few minutes in which to cleanse themselves, brush their hair and get into white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses. The call for dinner formation would sound at the appointed instant and they must be ready.

Sound it did, in short time, but it caught no one napping.

Nearly everyone of the young men in camp had just returned from a forenoon's work, and hot and dusty at that.

But now, as the call sounded, every member of three classes stepped from his tent looking as though he had just stepped from an hour spent in the hands of a valet.

Not one showed the least flaw in personal neatness. Moreover, the tents which these cadets had just quitted were in absolute order and wholly clean. At West Point no excuse whatever is accepted for untidiness of person or quarters.

With military snap and briskness the battalion was formed. Then at brisk command, the battalion turned to the left in column of fours, marching down the hot, sun-blazed road to cadet mess.

Despite the heat and the hard work of the forenoon--these cadets had been up, as they we every day in summer, since five in the morning--spirits ran high at the midday meal, and chaffing talk and laughter ran from table to table.

The meal over, the battalion marched back to camp. There were a few minutes yet before the afternoon drills. A few minutes of leisure? Yes, if such an easy act as dressing in uniform appropriate to the coming drill, may be termed leisure.

"Drills are going to be called off, I reckon," murmured Greg, poking his head outside the khaki colored tent after he had put himself in readiness.

"What's up?" demanded Anstey, lacing a legging.

"The sky is about the color of ink over old Crow's Nest," reported

Greg.

Just then there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed, in a few seconds, by a deep, echoing roll of thunder. The summer storms along this part of the Hudson River sometimes come almost out of the clear sky.

"I'm always thankful for even the smallest favors," muttered Anstey, with a yawn.

"We'll have to make up this drill some other day, when it's hotter," Dick observed, but he nevertheless dropped on to a campstool with a grunt of relief.

Yes; each of these three cadets could now have a campstool of his own in quarters, for Prescott, Holmes and Anstey were all yearlings.

And a yearling is "some one" in the cadet corps. For the first few days after his release from the plebe class the yearling is quite likely to feel that he is nearly "the whole thing." By degrees, however, the yearling in summer encampment discovers that there is a first class of much older cadets above him.

There are no second classmen in summer encampment, until just before the time to break camp and return to barracks for the following academic year. Members of the new second class--men who have successfully passed through the first two years of life at the United States Military Academy--are allowed two months and a half of summer furlough, during which time they return to their homes.

Readers of the foregoing volume in this series, "Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point", are already familiar with the ordeals, the hard work, the sorrows and the few pleasures, indeed, of plebe life at West Point.

These readers of the former volume recall just how Dick and Greg reached West Point in March of the year before; how they passed their entrance examinations and settled down to fifteen months of plebedom. Such readers recall the fights in which the new men found themselves involved, the hazing, laughable and otherwise, will be recalled. Our former readers will recollect that about the only pleasure that Dick Prescott found in his plebedom lay in his election to the presidency of his class--position that carries more responsibility than pleasure for the poor plebe leader of his class.

But now all was wholly and happily changed. Dick, Greg and Anstey were yearlings, entitled to real and friendly recognition from the upper classmen.

It is only seldom that yearlings are accused of b.j.-ety (freshness), for about all of that is taken out of the cadet during his plebedom.

But the greatest sign of all to the new yearling is that now, instead of finding himself liable to hazing at any time, he is now the one who administers the hazing.

It is rare that a first or second classman takes the trouble to haze a plebe. A first or second classman may notice that a plebe is a little too b.j. If so, the first or second classman usually drops a hint to a yearling, and the latter usually takes the plebe in hand.

So far, our young friends had been yearlings just three days. They had not, as yet, exercised their new function of hazing any plebes. The first three days in camp had been too full of new and hard duties to permit of their doing so.

As Greg looked out of the tent, the wind suddenly sprang up, driving a gust of big raindrops before it. In another moment there was a steady downpour. Cadet corporals in raincoats darted through the company streets, carrying the cheering word that drills were suspended until change of orders.

"I hope it rains all afternoon, then," gaped Anstey, behind his hand. "It's a rest for mine--you bunkies (tentmates) permitting."

Anstey stretched himself on his bed and was soon sound asleep.

In summer encampment, taps sound at 10.30, and first call to reveille sounds at five in the morning. Six hours and a half of sleep are none too much for a young man engaged at hard drilling and other work. The cadet, when his duties, permit, may, however, snatch a few minutes of sleep at any time through the day. Cadets in camp quickly get the knack of making a few minutes count for a nap.

"It's going to be a good one," declared Greg, as the rain settled down into a monotonous drumming against the shelter flap over the tent.

"A long one, too," spoke Prescott hopefully. "Greg, I actually believe that the wind is growing cool."

"Don't speak about it," begged Greg. "I'm superstitious."

"Superstitious?"

"Yes; if a rain comes up just after dress parade and guardmount, then it'll keep up the rest of the evening, when we might be enjoying ourselves after a strenuous day of work. But if you get to exulting over the rain that is to get us out of a drill or two, or bragging about a cool breeze getting lost around here in the daytime, then the raindrops cease at once, the wind dies down, and the sun comes out hotter than it has been before in a week!"

Dick took another look outside.

"Then I won't say that this rain is going to last all afternoon, but it is," Dick smiled.

"Now, you've spoiled it all!" cried Greg.

"Say, Holmesy, old spectre!" hailed a laughing voice across the street.

"Hullo!" Greg answered.

"Haven't a cold, have you?"

"No."

"Don't feel that you're marked for pneumonia?"

"What are you driving at Furlong?" Greg called back.

"Come along over, if you can brave the storm!" called yearling

Furlong. "You and the rest."

"Shall we go over, Dick?" asked Greg, turning around.

"Yes; why not? If nothing else, we'll leave Anstey in peace for his big sleep. Duck out. I'll be on your heels."

The flap across the way was thrown open hospitably as Greg entered, followed by Cadet Prescott.

"Where's old Mason and Dixon?" demanded Furlong, alluding to the fact that Anstey was a Virginian.

"He has turned in for a big sleep," Greg informed their hosts.

"Great!" chuckled Furlong. "Let's peep in and throw a bucket of water over him. He'll wake up and think the tent is leaking."

"Don't you dare!" warned Dick, but he said it with a grin that robbed his rebuke of offence. "Old Mace (short for 'Mason and Dixon') has been tired out ever since being on guard the first night in camp. He actually needs the big sleep. I believe this rain is for his benefit."

"Say that again, and put it slowly," protested Furlong, looking bewildered.

Griffin and Dobbs, the other two yearlings who tented with him, laughed in amusement.

"Now, that we've lured the class president in here," continued Cadet Furlong, "we'll call this a class meeting. A quorum isn't necessary. You've got my campstool, Mr. President, so we'll consider you in the chair. May I state the business before the meeting?"

"Proceed, Mr. Furlong," requested Prescott gravely.

"Then, sir, and gentlemen---" began Furlong.

"The chair calls you to order!" interrupted Dick sternly.

"Will the chair kindly explain the point of order?"

"It is out of order to make any distinction between the chair and 'gentlemen.'"

"I yield to the--the pride of the chair," agreed Furlong, with a comical bow. "Mr. Chairman and other gentlemen, the question that I wish to put is---"

Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued:

"What are we going to do with the plebes?"

Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered:

"I take it, Miles--pardon me, Furlong, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes?"

"Same thing," contended the other yearling.

"Why should we do anything to them?" asked Dick gravely.

"Why should we--say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we--o-o-o-o-h!"

Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air.

"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.

"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what did you think of yearlings--last year?"

"What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't much matter now. Then I was an ignorant, stupid, unregenerate, unsophisticated, useless, worthless and objectionable member of the community. I hadn't advanced far enough to appreciate the very exalted position that a yearling holds by right."

"We now know, quite well," broke in Dobbs, "that it is a yearling's sacred and bounden duty to lick a plebe into shape in the shortest possible order. Though it never has been done, and never can be done inside of a year," he finished with a sigh.

"Do you seek words of wisdom from your class president?" Cadet

Prescott inquired.

"Oh, yes, wise and worthy sir!" begged Furlong.

"Then this is almost the best that I can think of," Dick went on. It will never be possible to stamp out wholly the hazing of plebes at West Point. But we fellows can make a new record, if we will, by frowning on all severe and needless forms of hazing. I had the reputation of getting a lot of hazing last year, didn't I?"

"You surely did, old ramrod," murmured Furlong sympathetically. "At times, then, my heart ached for you, but now, with my increased intelligence, I perceive how much good it all did you."

"I took my hazing pretty well, didn't I?" insisted Dick.

"All that came your way you took like a gentleman," agreed Dobbs.

"At that time," went on Prescott, "I made up my mind that I'd submit, during my plebedom. But I also made up my mind--and it still my mind--that I'd go very slow, indeed, in passing the torment on to the plebes who followed me."

Dick spoke so seriously that there was an awkward pause.

"I don't want you to think that I'm going to set up as a yearling saint," Dick added. "I don't mean to say that I may not put a single plebe through any kind of pace. What I do mean is that I shall go very slowly indeed in annoying any plebe. I shan't do it, probably, unless I note a case of such utter b.j.-ety that I feel bound to bring the plebe quickly to his senses."

"You cast a gloom over us," muttered Furlong. "So far we haven't done any hazing. We were thinking of ordering a plebe in here, and starting in on him, so as to get our hands in. We need practice in the fine art."

"Don't let me interfere with your pursuit of happiness," begged

Dick, with mock politeness.

"But, seriously, old ramrod, are you as strong for the plebe as we have just been led to believe? Are you prepared to take the plebe to our heart and comfort him--instead of training him?"

"Do you believe we ought to take the plebe right into our midst, and condole with him until we get him over his homesickness? Do you feel that we should overlook all the traditional b.j.ety of the plebe, and admit him to full fellowship without any probation or instruction?"

"No," spoke Dick promptly. "I don't believe in patting the plebe on the shoulder and increasing his conceit. When a candidate first comes to West Point, and is admitted as a cadet, he is one of the most conceited simpletons on earth. He has to have that all taken out of him, I admit. He must be taught to respect and defer to upper classmen, just as he will have to do with his superior officers after he goes from here out into the service. The plebe must be kept in his place. I don't believe in making him feel that he's a pet. I do believe in frowning down all b.j.-ety. I don't believe in recognizing a plebe, except officially. But I don't believe in subjecting any really good fellow to a lot of senseless and half cruel hazing that has no purpose except the amusement of the yearlings. Now, I think I've made myself clear. At least, I've said all that I have to say on the subject. For the rest, I'll listen to the ideas of the rest of you."

There was silence, broken at last by Greg, who said:

"I think I agree, in the main, with Prescott."

"Oh, of course," grunted Dobbs, in a tone which might mean that

Greg Holmes was but the "shadow" of Dick Prescott.

Greg looked quickly at Dobbs, but saw nothing in the other's face that justified him in taking open offence.

Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort. He didn't rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door.

Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening. As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash.

The rain was pouring a little less heavily now. Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water.

It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe class.

Just as Mr. Briggs was passing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out.

Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street.

No upper classman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent.

He saw Anstey, asleep and alone.

Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey.

Dick Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe. Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters.

From across the way, came a roar of wrath.

Anstey was up, bellowing like a bull. Yet, roused so ruthlessly from a sound sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that his wetting must be due to human agency.

Then Anstey flew to the tent door, looking out, but the chuckling plebe was already in his own tent, out of sight.

"After what I've just said," announced Dick grimly, "I think I know of a plebe who requires some correction."

"Listen to our preacher!" jeered Furlong.