Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point Part 17

"Quite satisfactory, sir," nodded Kramer.

"Satisfactory, sir," added Prescott, waiting, as a plebe should, until the yearling had spoken.

Devine was back almost at once. The seconds carried the still unconscious Mr. Spurlock below to the waiting stretcher.

Immediately after Kramer dropped in on a cla.s.smate, who gladly came upstairs to aid Mr. Devine in seconding Mr. Kramer.

Not an unnecessary moment did Mr. Kramer lose with his stripping. He was ready in almost record time, presenting, bared, a man of about Mr. Spurlock's proportions, weight and general muscular fitness.

Mr. Edwards quickly recited the conditions, then called for the start of the affair.

Figuring that Prescott must now be a good deal sore and at least a bit winded, Mr. Kramer started in at a lively gait, trying to bear the plebe down with swift, overpowering rushes and showers of blows.

Some of these landed on the plebe's st.u.r.dy body, the whacks resounding. But the blows merely stirred Prescott's fighting blood within him. Standing up fairly, with little footwork, but displaying much more speed, d.i.c.k Prescott drove in blow after blow in such bewildering succession as to all but daze the yearling.

Bang! Kramer's right eye was half closed just as Cadet Jennison called the end of the first round.

"Great Scott, but that little fellow is a canned hurricane!" muttered Devine, as he wrung out cloths in cold water and applied then to Kramer's swelling eye. "Old man, you want to swing one blow down on the top of his head, and crush him, if you want to save your personal appearance."

"Won't I?" grunted Kramer. "Just watch me. I won't murder the plebe, but I've stood all the fooling I'm going to."

As the combatants rushed at each other again Kramer struck out two or three times; then clinched to save himself.

"Break away, there!" admonished Edwards sternly. "Get off!"

Again in that round Kramer clinched, despite the referee's sternest orders.

"That's no way to meet a plebe, Mr. Kramer," cried Edwards disgustedly.

After the second get-away d.i.c.k fairly danced around his man. A blow on the nose brought Kramer's blood. Then his left eye went all but shut. At that the yearling spun dizzily. d.i.c.k drove a light blow in behind his man's ear. Down went Spurlock's "avenger"

sprawling on the floor.

Mr. Jennison began to count while Kramer lay on the floor, stirring uneasily, yet not seeming to comprehend his seconds' warnings.

"--eight, nine, ten!" finished Mr. Jennison, then put the watch in his pocket.

"The fight is awarded to Mr. Prescott, and it isn't nine thirty yet,"

announced Mr. Edwards.

d.i.c.k's jubilant seconds sponged him, rubbed him down, kneaded his muscles and joyously a.s.sisted him in dressing.

Kramer, coming to presently, but with a face that Anstey said "made him think of the Dismal Swamp," was a.s.sisted downstairs by his seconds, and taken to the cadet hospital.

With the exception of the two yearlings whom Cadet Prescott had thrashed to a finish, all who had taken any part in the fights were in their beds, and lights out, when the subdivision inspectors flashed their bull's-eye lanterns into the room a moment after taps had sounded.

For the honor of the cla.s.s another yearling, Garston, forced a dispute within a few days, and Prescott had his third fight on his hands. He won it, though, about as easily as he had the other two.

Three such victories left this plebe free from further fight annoyance. Also, according to a tacitly understood rule, none of these three yearlings could engage in hazing Mr. Prescott after that.

CHAPTER XI

HOW CADET DODGE HELD POST NUMBER THREE

In the early days of the month of June, came all the glories of Commencement.

The first cla.s.s graduated, and went forth to receive their commissions in the Regular Army.

The second cla.s.s became the new first cla.s.s, and head and arbiters of all personal affairs in the battalion of cadets.

The yearlings now became second cla.s.s men, and departed on their summer furlough, to last until the latter part of August.

The old plebes moved up a peg, also, and became the new yearlings, vested with all the power of hazing and otherwise oppressing and training the plebes.

But for the new plebes--what? They were plebes just as much as ever, and would be until the following June.

The day after the graduating cla.s.s had departed, and the late yearlings had followed in their trail, as the furloughed new second cla.s.s, what was left of the battalion marched forth out of barracks into camp.

Here under the khaki-colored tents what was left of the battalion settled down to the life of the soldier in the field.

An untrained eye might not have noticed much in the arrangement of the camp. However, the tents of the main camp were arranged along six company streets. There was also the larger tent of the tactical officer in charge, the guard-tent, and some other tents used in the administration of camp-life.

Now, every text-book was laid aside for the summer. Instruction during camp period was to be in the practical duties that belong to the soldier's life.

The new first cla.s.s mourned the loss of a few members who had been "found"--that is, who had failed in their studies just before Commencement. More than a score had been dropped from the new yearling cla.s.s. Only two of the new plebes had been dropped, they having been found wholly and absolutely unfit to keep the brain-f.a.gging pace of academic work at West Point.

"I never minded study back home," muttered Greg, as he and d.i.c.k toiled setting their few belongings to rights under canvas. "But, the way the study-gait is kept up here at West Point, I certainly say 'hurrah' with all my heart at the thought that books are closed for all summer."

"We'll be back at the grind in September again," laughed d.i.c.k.

"And I'm a.s.sured that we haven't struck the real study-gait yet; that these new three months from March on are only to break us in a bit, so that we won't mind the real thing so much when we meet it in September."

"Then you give me cause for gloomy thought," shuddered Greg.

"Make way for a future general," grinned Anstey, as, with both arms full of belongings he forced his way into the tent. The cadets were housed three to a tent, and Anstey, to the great delight of d.i.c.k and Greg, had been a.s.signed to bunk with them. Anstey, too, was delighted, for the young Virginian was a gentleman of the actual type, who had been growing steadily more weary of the sham "gentleman" that Bert Dodge had so far ill.u.s.trated.

"I'm tent orderly this week," announced d.i.c.k, with a grin. "I received that very important news five minutes ago. I'm responsible for the order and condition of the tent for this week, so you fellows will have to step around to keep the tent in style to suit me."

"Oh, if you're tent orderly," laughed Anstey, "then we don't have to take the word from you."

"You don't?" demanded Prescott.

"No, indeed. If you're the orderly, then you're merely a striker."

A "striker," in the Army, is an enlisted man who is paid by an officer for doing servant's work in spare time. Hence, a striker is, in general, anyone engaged in menial service.

"Come on, Holmesy," urged Anstey, rising. "We'll go out for a stroll. Striker, see to it that you have a flawless tent interior when we return."