Dick Prescotts's Fourth Year at West Point Part 2

Mounting to the seat of his wagon, the soldier obeyed.

d.i.c.k Prescott and his mates did not watch this test closely.

They were sure enough of the quality of the work that they had done.

Reaching land at the further side of the bridge, the engineer soldier turned his team in a half circle, once more drove upon the bridge and recrossed to the starting point.

"Very well done, Mr. Prescott," nodded the Engineer officer, with a satisfied smile.

"Take down the bridge," ordered d.i.c.k, after having saluted the Army instructor.

Working as hard as before, the young men of the third and first cla.s.ses began to demolish the bridge that they had constructed.

When this had been done, and d.i.c.k had officially reported the fact, Lieutenant Armstrong replied:

"Mr. Prescott, you will form your detachment and march back to camp."

"Very good, sir."

Always that same salute with which a man in the Army receives an order.

Some thirty seconds later, the detachment was formed and d.i.c.k was marching it back up the inclined road on the way to the summer encampment. By that time, a sergeant and a squad of Engineer privates---soldiers of the Regular Army---were busy taking care of the pontoon boats and other bridge material.

Marching his men inside the encampment, d.i.c.k halted them.

"Detachment dismissed!" he called out.

There was a quick break for first and third cla.s.s tents. These young men were in field uniforms---sombreros, gray flannel s.h.i.+rts, flannel trousers and leggings. Most of them were dripping with perspiration under the hot August sun.

They were all hot and dusty, and their hands stained with tar.

Within a very few minutes every man in the detachment must be washed irreproachably clean, without sign of perspiration. They must be in uniforms of immaculate white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses, wearing cleanly polished shoes, and ready to march to dinner.

A great deal to be accomplished in a few minutes by the average American boy! Yet let one of these cadets be late at dinner formation, without an unquestionably good excuse, and he must pay the penalty in demerits. These demerits, according to their number, bring loss of prized privileges.

Cadet Jordan, having done little, was among the first to be clean and presentable. Immaculate, trim and trig he looked as he stepped from his tent, but on his face lay a scowl that boded ill for his appet.i.te at the coming dinner.

d.i.c.k was a master of swift toilets. He was on the company street almost immediately after Jordan had stepped out under the shadow of a tree.

"Prescott," began Jordan stiffly, "I want a word or two with you."

"Yes?" asked d.i.c.k, looking keenly at his cla.s.smate. "Very good."

"Why did you report me this morning?"

"Because you performed the work in an indolent, laggard manner, even after I had cautioned you."

"Do you consider yourself called upon to be a judge of your cla.s.smates?"

"When I am detailed in command over them in any duty---yes."

"Shall I tell you what I think of you for reporting me?"

"It would be in bad taste, at least," d.i.c.k answered. "It is against the regulations for a cadet to call another to account for reporting him officially."

"Oh, bother the regulations!"

"If that is actually your view," replied d.i.c.k, with a smile, "then I will leave you to the enjoyment of your discovery concerning the regulations."

"Prescott, you are a prig!" snapped Mr. Jordan.

"If it were necessary to determine that, as a matter of fact,"

answered d.i.c.k coolly, though he flushed somewhat, "I would rather leave it to a decision of the cla.s.s."

"Oh, I know you have plenty of bootlicks," sneered Jordan. "I also know that you are cla.s.s president. But that is no reason why you should act as though you thought yourself a bigger man than the President of the United States."

"Jordan, has the sun been affecting your head this forenoon?"

demanded d.i.c.k, with another keen look at his cla.s.smate.

"Well, you do act as though you thought yourself bigger than the President," insisted Jordan sneeringly.

"I am a cadet, not yet capable of being a second lieutenant, in the Army," d.i.c.k replied, regaining his coolness. "The President is commander-in-chief of the combined Army and Navy."

"You are utterly puffed up with your own importance," cried Jordan hotly, though in a discreetly low voice. "Prescott, you are-----"

Something in Jordan's eyes warned d.i.c.k that a vile insult was coming in an instant.

"_Stop_!" commanded Prescott, shooting a look full of warning at his cla.s.smate. "Jordan, don't say anything that will compel me to knock you down in plain sight of the camp. It's years since such a thing as that has happened at West Point!"

"Oh, you lordly brute!" sneered Jordan, his face alternately white and aflame with unreasoning anger. "Prescott, you had it in for me. That was why you reported me this morning. That was why you put me in line for demerits and punishment tour walking.

You are bound to use your little, petty authority to humble and humiliate me. I shall call you out for this!"

"If you do," shot back d.i.c.k, "I shall decline to fight you.

It would be against regulations and against all the traditions of the corps for me to arbitrate, by a fight, the question of whether I did right to report you."

"You refuse a fight," warned Jordan, with a malicious grin, "and I'll denounce you all through the cla.s.s!"

"Denounce me, then, if you wish," retorted d.i.c.k in cool contempt, "and you'll bring trouble down on your own head instead. No cla.s.s requires, or permits, a member to fight in defence of his official conduct."

"Prescott is turning coward, then, is he?"

"You or any other man who presumes to say it knows well enough that he is thereby lying," came quickly from between Prescott's teeth.

"Why, hang you, you-----"

"You'd better hush for a moment," warned Prescott. "Here comes the corps adjutant, and I think he is looking for you."

"Yes! With a message of discipline from the O.C. just because I was reported by a toy martinet like you!" retorted Cadet Jordan.

Cadet Filson, corps adjutant, wearing his white gloves, red sash and sword, came up with brisk military stride. He halted before Jordan, while Prescott moved away.