d.i.c.k Prescott"s Second Year at West Point.
by H. Irving Hanc.o.c.k.
CHAPTER I
THE CLa.s.s PRESIDENT LECTURES ON HAZING
Leaving the road that wound by the officers" quarters at the north end, turning on to the road that pa.s.sed 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. "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 cla.s.ses 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,"
d.i.c.k 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s of much older cadets above him.
There are no second cla.s.smen 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 cla.s.s---men who have successfully pa.s.sed 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, _"d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k and Greg reached West Point in March of the year before; how they pa.s.sed 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 d.i.c.k Prescott found in his plebedom lay in his election to the presidency of his cla.s.s---position that carries more responsibility than pleasure for the poor plebe leader of his cla.s.s.
But now all was wholly and happily changed. d.i.c.k, Greg and Anstey were yearlings, ent.i.tled to real and friendly recognition from the upper cla.s.smen.
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 cla.s.sman takes the trouble to haze a plebe. A first or second cla.s.sman may notice that a plebe is a little too b.j. If so, the first or second cla.s.sman 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, s.n.a.t.c.h 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.